


Heliacal Rising

by camajama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camajama/pseuds/camajama
Summary: Hermione would just like to make it through sixth year without Harry nearly getting himself killed. Hopefully his godfather can help with that.





	1. Chapter 1

∆ 

_Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky_  
_On summer nights, star of stars_  
_Orion’s Dog they call it, brightest_  
_Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat_  
_And fevers to suffering humanity._  
  
_—Homer, The Odyssey_  
  


∆

The hospital wing is silent.   
  
A breeze wafts through the tall open windows, stirring the thin white curtains. The midmorning sunlight trickles in with the promising scent of the approaching summer, and it is entirely believable in this moment that nothing bad could ever happen.  
  
Hermione's focus shifts from the fluttering curtain to the man in the bed beside it, next to her own. She should be cleared to leave by today, she's sure. Ron was discharged yesterday, still complaining of the nearly-healed brainy tentacle burns on his arms. He and Harry assured her they would be back as soon as they finished packing, eager to hurry in case her ward-mate wakes up. In the quiet of the high chambered ceilings and Sirius's steady breathing, the looming war seems faraway and unreal.   
  
Hermione closes her eyes and inhales. Magic medicine is entirely different from the sterility of real hospitals –  _muggle hospitals_ , her mind amends, marking her a true muggleborn – but the smell makes her feel more or less the same. She thinks of her parents' dentist office, the look on her mother's face when she examined Hermione's suddenly-proportional teeth last summer. She had pursed her lips but threw her hands up in exasperation when Hermione reminded her that now she wouldn't need a retainer.   
  
"Sirius," she says quietly, but the man does not stir.  
  
Hermione settles back into her pillow and closes her eyes. It has been a long year, she thinks, and hopes he is resting well.

∆

  
Grimmauld Place feels the same as last summer. Halfway through July Hermione steps through the Floo at twelve-thirty on the dot, straight into a lunchtime cacophony that could convince her she has been knocked back through time, to the beginning of fifth year. She imagines twisting the small notched dials on the Time Turner she once used, smashed forever now:  _one year, three-hundred-sixty-five days, twenty four hours in a day and eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty turns should do the trick..._  
  
There's a rhythm to it, a forced steadiness to retain some semblance of normalcy – Mrs. Weasley is directing a platter of sandwiches from the kitchen, Professor Lupin is sitting next to Sirius at the table with the _Daily Prophet_ in hand, and an abundance of red-haired teenagers are lingering around the warm basement dining room.  
  
"Hermione!" a chorus of voices rings out, and before she can speak something tackles her. Ginny has a good four or five centimeters on her now and pulls back, beaming, followed by Ron, who awkwardly hugs her with one arm but ruffles her hair with a grin.  
  
"Alright there, Granger?" either Fred or George call out and Mrs. Weasley ushers her in with a smile, brushing off the soot from her shoulders and steering her to the table.   
  
"It's so good to see you, dear, how has your summer been? Boys, do me a favor and take Hermione's things up – yes, thank you,  _careful_  please—"   
  
“The brightest witch of the age graces us with her presence,” she hears and turns to see Sirius nursing a coffee with a good-natured grin, which she returns. Beside him, Professor Lupin sets down the  _Prophet_ to greet her; there are dark circles underneath his eyes, but he is clean-shaven.  
  
"It's good to see you, Professor," she says as Mrs. Weasley passes her a plate.  
  
“Remus, please, as I can unfortunately no longer call myself your Professor," he reminds her. Hermione briefly entertains the thought of what fifth year could've been like if he _had_ been their Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor as she sits beside Ron, who takes a large bite of a baked potato immediately before opening his mouth again.  
  
"Thank goodness you're here,” he says. Hermione wrinkles her nose but loads up her own plate. "It's been a madhouse, with Bill's engagement and all..."   
  
"Engagement?" Hermione asks, taking the goblet of pumpkin juice Sirius passes to her. "To—?"  
  
" _Phlegm_ ," Ginny says shortly as she drops into the seat on Hermione’s other side. There's a surprised cough or two as Lupin seems to swallow his tea down the wrong pipe and Sirius thumps his back, hiding a smirk behind his mug.  
  
"Ginevra!" Mrs. Weasley's warning tone rings out and the named offender rolls her eyes. "Fleur Delacour," she tells Hermione with a tight smile as she sets the pans to clean themselves. "Bill proposed last month."   
  
"She's dreadful," Ginny whispers. "Don't know what he sees in her, especially with her constant _'een France we do not do zees, you Eenglish make everyzing so 'ard_ —'"  
  
"Fleur is perfectly nice," Mrs. Weasley says stiffly as she waves her wand at the mug in Sirius’s hands despite his protest, sending it zooming towards the sink.  
  
"She's lovely," George adds as he and Fred trample back in, "very French." Ginny smirks and Mrs. Weasley goes on as though she hadn't heard.   
  
"I just think they're rushing into this, they've hardly been dating a year—"  
  
"It's wartime, Molly, it's the same as what happened last time," Sirius says dismissively, pointing his wand at the cupboard beside the sink to pour himself another cup of coffee. "People eloping left and right, afraid they'll be dead tomorrow. Same as you and Arthur, come to think," he says slyly.  
  
Mrs. Weasley turns pink and Sirius snatches his mug up with a scowl as she jabs her wand a little more emphatically than necessary, the empty plates on the table sailing off to the wash. "Yes, well, Arthur and I were made for each other, hardly a point in waiting," she snaps as she bustles out.  
  
Hermione catches Remus’s eye and he twitches the barest hint of a wink.   
  
It's good to be back.

∆

Grimmauld Place is not quite the same as last year.  
  
Fred and George had only dropped in for lunch, having moved into the flat above their shop; Fleur and Bill are staying at the Burrow for a few days, giving Hermione enough time to meet Fleur properly ("full of herself, isn't she," Ginny says dryly after the first hour and Hermione finds herself nodding vehemently). Order meetings are still kept behind closed doors, and she, Ginny and Ron use a pair of Extendable Ears for half an hour the first night before finally giving up. Their only clue to what could be happening in the world beyond them is the underlying tenseness that permeates the dark house, quieter now without the scratching and occasional snuffling of Buckbeak, who was moved back under Hagrid’s care under the alias of Witherwings.  
  
"Tonks is in bad shape," Ginny says, lying on her stomach at the foot of Hermione's bed a few nights after she arrives, flipping through _Witch Weekly_. "I kept thinking Mum was having her round to convince Bill to marry her instead, but now I'm not so sure."  
  
"What do you mean?" Hermione asks, propped up against the spindly iron headboard, idly paging through her mother’s 1950 edition of _The Completed Works of Homer_. She’ll be glad to get her hands on her new textbooks, despite her mother’s insistence she read it before her annual revisit of  _The Hobbit_ , which has been a family favorite she’s reread with her parents more times than she can count.  
  
"Well," Ginny says slowly, sitting up, "I heard her and Mum talking a bit back at the house... last time, I was coming down the stairs pretty late for some water and Tonks was saying she was miserable lately because of 'him,' but Bill and Phlegm have been together for nearly a year. Bill's a bit of an adventure chaser but he'd never, you know... and Tonks's been fine until recently..."  
  
"So Tonks is having boy problems?" Hermione asks skeptically, setting down her tome. Ginny shrugs.  
  
"I dunno. Not like there are an awful lot of ladies around here to talk to about it, anyway, I'm sure having Mum as an ear has been good."  
  
"Who do you think?"  
  
Ginny hums and flops onto her back, squirming up closer to the head of the bed. She elbows Hermione judiciously, and with a grunt Hermione moves her knees to make room.  
  
"You think Sirius, maybe?"  
  
"Cousins," Hermione says immediately, but they both share a glance. Pureblood wizarding families seem to have a penchant for skirting that specific issue.  
  
"Yeah, nah, I don't think so," Ginny says. "She and Sirius seem to still get on just fine. I'm trying to think of... I dunno, what available bachelors are in the Order?"  
  
"'Available bachelor' doesn't necessarily bring to mind an awful lot of great choices," Hermione snorts, and Ginny grins.  
  
"Well, who do we know? There's Snape," she offers, and her face is completely serious. Hermione stares down at her until they both start cracking up and Hermione covers her face with the purple throw pillow she was resting her book on.  
  
" _Professor_  Snape seems like... not quite Tonks's type," Hermione says, voice muffled.  
  
"Oh c'mon, who wouldn't go for that illustrious, stringy–" Ginny's sentence is punctuated with a shriek as Hermione hits her with the pillow. "C'mon, Hermione, don't you think—"  
  
"—do  _not_  want that image in my mind  _ever_  again thank you very much–!"  
  
They both freeze as they hear the thud of footsteps from the floor above them; after a moment, they both settle down and Hermione wraps her arms around her knees as Ginny settles back. Hermione absently watches the ceiling, the yellow pattern the lamplight casts across it, the orange glow from the street.   
  
"Okay, okay. Kingsley."   
  
They both contemplate it.  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen them talk about like, non-Order stuff. Kingsley hasn't stuck around for dinner in ages with how busy the Ministry's kept him," Ginny says, propping herself up on one elbow. "Who does stick around for dinner?"  
  
"There's... Dung...?"   
  
They both shudder.  
  
"Lupin?"  
  
"Er... maybe? I guess I've seen them talk... you know, not recently, though. I don't think I've seen them here at the same time in weeks. He isn’t all that much older than Tonks, really."  
  
Hermione logically knows Sirius and Professor Lupin – Remus, she reminds herself – to be the same age as Harry’s parents, but she’s never quite lumped them into the same category as _parent._ They’ve always been much more approachable than that.  
  
“A bit older, isn’t that lot? It doesn’t seem like it would be all that much of an issue, they’re all adults in the Order.”  
  
“You really get all sorts with wizardkind,” Ginny says sagely. “My great-aunt Muriel’s first husband was twenty years older than she was and her last one was twenty years younger."  
  
“I couldn’t even imagine,” Hermione says, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“Says the girl who went to the Yule Ball with an eighteen-year-old,” Ginny teases and begins laughing as Hermione hits her with the pillow again. "Come off it, he was four years older than you and you still got bored! Nothing wrong with that. But school boys are daft and you're too smart for the lot of them, anyway."  
  
"Says Dean Thomas's girlfriend," Hermione says, faintly amused but pleased at the compliment. She can feel Ginny shrug as she resettles and doesn't comment that the girl isn't very put out by the implication. Hermione looks out the window next to the bed, out to the dim street beyond. It makes sense that a house magicked in-between two others would have a nice street-view, by wizarding logic. "Anyway, I don't think I'll have time for much of that this year. N.E.W.T.s are next year... and then, well. There is a war going on," she says softly. Ginny shifts beside her.  
  
"I heard some whispering about what happened at the Ministry," she says quietly. "After a meeting, it was late and a lot of the Order had already left... one of the first days Mum had me and Ron staying here instead of the Burrow, you know, safety and all that... I think it was just Sirius and Lupin and Tonks. Sirius seemed pretty upset."  
  
"That we went?" Hermione asked in surprise.  
  
"Nah, I think that everything worked out the way it did. He almost strangled Kreacher, did you hear? But Dumbledore must've had a word with him, I can't think of anybody else who could've convinced him to keep Kreacher – well, not _keep_ , not here, but he's working at the kitchens in Hogwarts now. But I think Sirius was pretty shook up about it, I heard Lupin saying he was taking too much blame on himself, which is why I thought it was about the Ministry. Plus he was stuck here most of the year, wasn't he? And then to charge out like that... well, I heard them say that Dumbledore was pretty angry that he did, but Sirius said he'd do it again in a heartbeat and he and Tonks got into it a bit because Sirius said he doesn’t care what Dumbledore wants. I reckon he's afraid of losing Harry."  
  
"We all are," Hermione says absently, resting her forehead on her knees.  
  
"...Yeah. Trouble always seems to find him, doesn't it?"  
  
"And the rest of us," Hermione says. "I think we all forget how lucky we were." One of the streetlamps flickers a bit, but stays on. The night is completely still.   
  
Ginny returns to her bed soon after. Hermione watches the empty street and stares out at the dark sky, listening to Ginny's breathing as it evens out. Pulling the blanket a little tighter around herself, Hermione tries not to think about why the summer air does not warm her.

∆

The clock on her nightstand reads  _1:34_  by the time she decides that sleep won't come and she might as well do a bit of reading. She fumbles down the stairs, book in hand; she wishes she could use her wand and knows that she reasonably could, there are a dozen adults in and out and her magical signature would hardly cause a stir... the stair under her foot creaks just as Hermione notices the kitchen light is on. Dismayed, she contemplates turning around, but why shouldn't she feel perfectly comfortable coming down to make herself tea? Nothing wrong with that.   
  
She shuffles into the kitchen and finds Sirius sitting at the table. He tries to smile and it looks terrible on him, which he must realize, because it drops; he looks much more tired when there aren't so many people around.  
  
"'Mione," he says in greeting. She can't remember if he's ever called her that.   
  
"You look exhausted," she responds, immediately regretting the words.  _He doesn't need a mother._  "Though far be it from me to lecture anyone on their sleep schedules," she adds as she moves towards the cabinets, pleased to see the corners of Sirius's mouth twitch.  
  
"What are you doing up so late?"  
  
"Fell asleep reading, woke up, read more, couldn't fall asleep again, tea." Hermione pulls out two mugs and waves them at him, to which he nods. He must've had the same idea because the kettle is already going, and she pulls it off the stove.  
  
"It's a wonder you get any sleep at all, puttering about at this hour of the night,” he says as she sets down the piping hot mug in front of him, sitting down across the table.  
  
"I'm not puttering," she says, wrinkling her nose at him a little, "and besides, what are you doing up?"  
  
Sirius wraps his hands around his mug. He looks tired, but he also looks very young like this. He's wearing a faded muggle band t-shirt with pajama bottoms, legs stretched out and hunched over with terrible posture, hair messy. He always keeps it loose, but it seems especially hazardous now – like Harry's bedhead, if Harry had much longer hair that fell straighter. He half-shrugs in a way that shaves off twelve years for a second shorter than a blink, so short that she nearly misses it. She looks down at her book.  
  
"Harry's in tomorrow," she says casually, not taking her eyes from the print as she slowly pages through it to find her earmark. She frowns and thinks, not for the last time, about finding a bookmark she won't lose. Dog-earing pages is a terrible habit she picked up from Ron, one that she was initially scandalized by until the stress of fourth year final exams broke her down during an Ancient Runes and Arithmancy cross-referencing frenzy.  
  
"Yeah," Sirius says. She glances at him.  
  
"Are you excited?"  
  
Sirius looks at her warily, and then slumps a little, elbows resting on the table. "Course I am," he says as he runs a hand through his hair. "It's just, with everything that's happened, with what happened at the Ministry..."   
  
_Ah_. Hermione had wondered when that particular discussion point would come up.  
  
"There's no way you could've prevented it," she says immediately. "With Umbridge trying to keep us cut off and Harry's connection—"  
  
"That's just it," Sirius grounds out. "With his _connection to Voldemort_. He had no way of knowing, he just charged in! We hardly prevented what could've been _terrible_."   
  
"You weren't even supposed to be out of Grimmauld," Hermione points out, but instantly recognizes this as the wrong thing to say. Sirius scowls. "Not to say that we weren't incredibly lucky you did show up with the rest of the Order when you did," she backtracks quickly, "but I know Professor Snape got under your skin about it! You and Harry are exactly as reckless as each other."   
  
He flares a bit at the mention of the Potions Master, but acknowledges the truth with a dip of his head, sated. Sirius runs his hands through his hair again, a tic that must be very boyish when he has proper sleep and nutrition. He looks rundown; too much coffee, too much adrenaline, too much  _awake_ – he is coiled like a spring, and despite all the food Mrs. Weasley has heaped into him, he still reminds her very much of the wiry, half-crazed man she met what feels like a lifetime ago. "Like James and I, yeah. But things are different this go around, it isn't safe to be running off. Especially not for him, and not for you," he says, looking at her square in the eye. Hermione blinks at her own inclusion.   
  
"Well, I'm not Harry," she brushes off. They lapse into silence.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sirius says suddenly, to her surprise. "It must be exhausting for it to be about Harry all the time. He's my godson and I love him, but Hermione Granger is important, too."  
  
It is a decidedly strange thing to hear.   
  
"Thank you,” Hermione says after a brief moment of being too surprised to respond. "I never really... it's just – that’s how it's always been, I've never much thought about it that way. I've never begrudged Harry for the terrible things that target him."  
  
"Of course not," Sirius says dismissively, "but with everyone talking about Harry's safety and future and prophecy and calling him the  _Chosen One_  now, I could see how it would grate. If it were me I know I'd be bent about it at least every once in a while. Goodness, you've taken your O.W.L.s, I haven't even asked how that went!"  
  
"Don't get me started," Hermione groans. "I know I made at _least_ one serious mistranslation in Ancient Runes, and I'm positive my Defense practical was rubbish..."  
  
"Always the note of positivity," Sirius says dryly. Hermione makes a face – for all she knows, she could've  _absolutely_ failed. "I'm sure you did fine. When do your scores come in?"  
  
"Within the week, I suppose," she says, which does nothing to help her nerves. Sirius barks a laugh.  
  
"You did fine. What's the point of worrying so much, anyway?"   
  
Hermione deflates a bit. Ron has said this to her many, many times before, but it sounds different from Sirius's mouth and she realizes he's right. "I suppose," she concedes, tucking one of her legs underneath her. "No use crying over spilt pumpkin juice, and all that."  
  
"Atta girl," Sirius says. "How's Hermione Granger's summer been?"  
  
Hermione smiles as she takes a sip of her tea. "Well, my parents wanted to take a day-trip to _Milton Keynes_ last week, of all places..."

∆

Their OWL scores, in fact, arrive the same morning that Harry does.   
  
His arrival is much calmer than last year. No yelling – “always a plus,” Ron says good-naturedly after Harry greets them over breakfast, having actually arrived during the late evening. Harry has the good humor to grin as he takes a bite of toast right as Tonks traipses down the stairs.  
  
"Mail's here!" Her voice is tired and seems to strain to sound upbeat, her hair a mousey brown. "Looks like your scores have come in," she says, passing Hermione an official Hogwarts-sealed envelope.  
  
"Open them up, then," she hears Sirius call out from his seat next to Harry. She feels faint as she slides her finger along the envelope. Her fingers are shaking a little as she pulls the parchment out.  
  
"Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?" she hears Ron say cheerfully as she stares down and Harry must say something back but she hardly hears it. She hears the scrape of a chair and Hermione barely registers someone's come up behind her, but she can't tear her eyes away from the test scores.  
  
"Brilliant!" Sirius breathes. "Nine 'O's and – come off it, you're disappointed with a single Exceeds Expectations, aren't you?" Hermione looks up with a weak smile and Sirius gives out a bark of a laugh, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and squeezing her before moving over to Ron. Tonks whistles from behind her with a nudge, squeezing her arm.  
  
"Those are some top-notch scores, Hermione, you keep those into your N.E.W.T levels and you'll be qualified for just about anything," Tonks says seriously, but Hermione stares at the single, lone _E_ for a moment. She hears Mrs. Weasley come down the stairs and begin to admonish Ron, albeit affectionately. Hermione feels the familiar tug of uncertainty, that if only she had studied just a little harder… but she smiles at the line of  _O_ 's.  
  
"We're N.E.W.T students now!” Ron crows, and despite the 'E' that shines out at her, she can't help but feel pleased with herself and her boys. "Mum, anymore sausage left—?"

∆

The stairs creak ominously.  
  
Grimmauld Place is much brighter than it used to be, but it is still the stuff of haunted-house nightmares: after midnight, the grandfather clock in the library seems to groan every so often, and as she grasps the spindly banister, Hermione imagines the strips of light from the second story window running along the walls turning into the stripes of a red and black sweater, from a late night horror she'd seen last summer...  
  
 Hermione jumps as the last stair creaks. This is the third time she's startled herself with her own clumsy footfalls.  _Not Auror material, then_ , she thinks sourly as her feet meet the cool stone of the basement landing. The kitchen light is on again.  
  
"Fancy seeing you up this late," Sirius greets. He already has the kettle going. She has  _The Hobbit_  in hand tonight, the worn covers read through so many times that it is a sure win for helping her sleep, or at least she had thought so when she pulled it from her trunk. Hermione had eagerly started in on the textbooks they’d picked up from Diagon Alley just today, but she knows from experience to not tempt herself with an all-night reading binge.  
  
"Back at you," she says, noticing he looks less jovial than he did during the few days following Harry's arrival. "Can't sleep?"  
  
"Harry told me about what happened today."  
  
Hermione hums noncommittally; Harry must’ve made a beeline to Sirius as soon as they got back from supply shopping at Diagon Alley earlier, where she, Harry and Ron tailed Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. She motions for Sirius to sit down as the kettle goes off, dropping her book on the table to switch the stove off. "And?"  
  
"Sounds like you need acting lessons, Granger," he replies. Hermione feels her face heat. Her attempt to try to figure out what Malfoy was up to by telling Borgin that she was looking for a _birthday present_ for him, of all things, was disastrous.  
  
"Not one of my finest moments," she grounds out, and hears him snigger. "Alright, it was a terrible idea! But Harry was so set on following him, I felt like I had to do  _something_..."  
  
"It was a pretty terrible idea all around. You accuse me of being reckless," he says, but there isn't any bite to it. Hermione sighs and passes him a mug as she sits down across from him.   
  
"You are," she says pointedly. He grins, but it fades as she continues. "It was a terrible idea and we don't know what Malfoy is up to, if he's up to anything, but I'm afraid all it's going to do is make Harry... well, he won't say, but I know last year shook him up a lot," she says, staring at the steeping water, both hands wrapped around the ceramic. It's almost hot enough to burn. "I don't think he and Voldemort have a connection as much, he doesn't mention it and I think he cut Harry off, mostly... and I think Harry feels guilty, too," she says. "You were hurt, and he blames himself. I think that's part of why he's so stir-crazy to get out and do something."  
  
She glances at him, and there's a muscle in his jaw that jumps.   
  
"Everyone was injured," he says neutrally. "Harry knows that isn't his fault."  
  
"You're both terribly afraid of losing each other," she observes. Sirius looks at her, startled, but settles with a slight hum.  
  
"He's the only family I've got," he murmurs. "Not that I'm much of anything from in here," he adds after a moment, moodily jabbing his wand towards the liquor cabinet. A bottle of firewhiskey sails out to pour a dollop into his mug.  
  
"Honestly," Hermione sighs. She pushes her mug forward and Sirius's chair, which had been balancing on its hind feet, clatters back to the floor. "My mum and I have hot toddies together in the evenings, sometimes. Not as much as you use, though," she says, wrinkling her nose. He fails to move, gobsmacked; Hermione rolls her eyes and reaches forward to grasp the bottle and pours a teaspoon's worth into her mug, and then stands to put the firewhiskey away and pick out the honey from the cupboard above the sink. She feels somewhat pleased with herself for rendering him speechless.  
  
"Not a word to Molly," he finally says weakly, and she snorts. They lapse into companionable silence. Hermione picks up the rather sorry looking paperback again after a few minutes, curling her toes into the chair. She steals a glance; Sirius's features are aristocratic, and when he broods they become heavy. The crease between his eyebrows is more telling than anything.  
  
" _I am looking,_ " she says suddenly, and the words fall out before she can decide whether she feels silly about them or not, " _for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone_."   
  
She sees him raise an eyebrow from the corner of her eye.   
  
" _I should think so_ ," Hermione continues in a voice just a little higher, a pitch just high enough to sound, perhaps, like a hobbit, " _in these parts! We are plain quiet folk, and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them, said our Mr. Baggins, and stuck one thumb behind his braces, and blew out another even bigger smoke-ring_ ," she reads, and glances up to him. Sirius is smiling in bemusement.   
  
"Never read Tolkien?" she asks, taking a sip from her mug. The firewhiskey strips her throat in a way her mother’s Grouse doesn't, but the honey soothes it.   
  
"Is that a muggle novel?" he asks, reaching over to pull it from her. He absently dog-ears her spot and flips it to read the back cover and grins. "' _Gandalf the wizard and a company of dwarves_ '? Is that what muggles call fantasy?"  
  
"It's good," Hermione says mildly. She surprises herself – if it were any of the Weasley brothers she's sure she would have snatched it back, hackles raised, but instead she watches Sirius as he delightedly flips through the first few pages. "Would you like to borrow it? I've read it more times than I could count."  
  
Sirius looks at her in surprise, but shrugs. Hermione feels almost, almost crestfallen as his eyebrows draw together again, though she could not say why, and he sets it down on the table. "Why not," he says. "Won't be much to do around here anyway, with you lot leaving next week."  
  
Hermione doesn't have anything to say to this. Harry is not James, is no replacement for a friend, yet Sirius is no replacement for a father, and she wonders if they have ever put this into words between the two of them.  
  
"Back for Christmas," she offers. He smiles without looking at her and it doesn't reach his eyes. Hermione is suddenly irritated; Mrs. Weasley made custard tonight, and it has been a running joke in the Order that her custard could cure _Severusitus_ because Professor Snape once stayed behind after a meeting to eat some and had said _thank you for dessert, Molly_ after. Mrs. Weasley's custard has cured Ginny of Harry-sickness (she sent some fourth year the day after Harry asked Cho to the Yule Ball, and Hermione sat up with her in the third-year dorm as Ginny cried in big gulping breaths, finally calming enough to shove a spoonful in her mouth); has convinced Fred and George to behave in exchange for a serving; Tonks once even caught the dessert pan when Ron and the twins’ rough-housing nearly knocked it over last summer. Sirius had eaten his portion this evening as the table heatedly engaged about the Chudley Cannon's chances of making the next bracket to move up towards playing Puddlemere United, laughing and playing along, and Hermione had thought, in passing, that he seemed happier this summer.  
  
A small, childish voice in Hermione's head asks that if Mrs. Weasley's custard can't soothe the worry from Sirius's face, what possibly could? But she is no longer a child, and Sirius’s immaturity has become more apparent to her throughout her summers, though she doesn’t blame him.  
  
Instead, she says, "why Sirius, I had no idea you'd miss me so much." He cracks at this and gives her a lop-sided grin that reminds her, oddly enough, of an expression she's only seen on him as a dog. It reaches his eyes this time – there's a crinkle in the outer corner of his left eye that winks when his smile is real.  
  
She reaches forward and grasps his hand for less than a second, leaving her book behind as she heads up the stairs to get some rest.

∆

Hermione spends the rest of the week wedged either in the library sofa with a rotating array of novels her parents have lent her and textbooks she’d like to finish notating before term begins, or between Ron and Harry. After a few days she and Ron begin exchanging glances whenever Harry brings Malfoy up; Harry is normally the beacon of sanity when either of them happen upon a new obsession, but this is not something funny to roll their eyes at, and the concern in Ron's eyes reflects her own.  
  
"You worried about this whole Malfoy deal?" Ron finally says to her out of the corner of his mouth one afternoon. Harry is losing at chess particularly badly today, and threw up his hands claiming he’s needed the toilet for the past three matches. Hermione bites her lip, eyes on the door, and helps Ron reset the board with a sigh. She prods a white pawn across the board absently with her wand and it swats the tip of it away after a particularly careless jab.  
  
"That Harry's so stuck on it? Yeah."  
  
"You think Malfoy's become one of them?"  
  
"I don't know what to think," she says. "I mean... I'm not going to write off the possibility, but even if he did become a Death Eater, why would he be... I mean, it's ridiculous to think You-Know-Who would trust him with anything, he's _sixteen_ , for goodness sake. Voldemort must have a fair amount of followers who would be better suited for any sort of job." Ron winces and glares at her, but sighs after a moment.  
  
"Maybe that's why he'd pick Malfoy," he says thoughtfully, but shrugs when Hermione makes a face. "Nah, I don't think so either, honest. Too much of a git, even You-Know-Who could smell it on him. Those nostrils, you know..."  
  
Hermione snorts, a little terrified, and they both grin. These things aren't as scary to think about when she is with Ron and Harry. No less dangerous, of course – _constant vigilance_ , the phrase echoes through her mind.   
  
"I suppose the best thing we can do is keep him distracted. He's got enough to worry about," Hermione says as she climbs back onto the sofa and the chess pieces stretch in a bizarre miniaturized warm-up. Ron's eyes widen.  
  
"Brilliant, Hermione! I know just the thing. _Oi_ , Harry!"  
  
The best distraction is, to Hermione's dismay, in the form of Flooing to the Burrow and playing Quidditch in the Weasley's small apple orchard. They manage a handful of games, if one could call even them that, over the last few days of the summer.  
  
"I'm dreadful at Quidditch and I'm done," Hermione calls out desperately the afternoon before they leave for Hogwarts. She tumbles off her broom to land in the grass, glaring at the old Cleansweep; Ron guffaws, not unkindly, and he helps her up after he dismounts, Ginny and Harry following. Harry is smiling and, well. Mission accomplished, at least.  
  
They hurry towards the fireplace to avoid Fleur, who just _loves_ saying hello to Harry (to Ginny's complete disgust, if the expression on her face is anything to go by). Hermione laughs as Ginny rolls her eyes at the throaty "' _Arry_!" they can't seem to avoid. Not that Harry seems to mind, though Ron does; he storms past them with a scowl into the fireplace. Ginny knocks Hermione with her elbow, and they both smirk.

∆

She's packed before either of the boys on September first by eight o'clock sharp. Ginny is looking for a sock underneath her bed as Hermione leaves their shared room for a snack before the long train ride, deciding on toast with jam.  
  
"Hermione," a voice says lowly as she enters the kitchen, and before she can turn around she is pulled into the pantry.   
  
"I know you lot are leaving soon here,” Sirius says without preamble and she blinks at the light adjustment, "and I wanted to remind you to just... keep your eyes open. I've already told Harry as much, but I know that he's not going to stop chewing on the idea that one of his classmates could be a Death Eater, and I can already tell you that will make him do some stupid things. But things aren't like when I was his age. Things are much more dangerous now, even at Hogwarts. They've upped the security, but that doesn't mean you can let your guard down. Not for a second."  
  
Hermione nods, processing his words. She knows Harry had talked to Sirius about Malfoy more in the few days leading up to their departure, and judging by the rather clipped answer he gave when she and Ron asked him about it yesterday, she’s sure that Sirius wasn’t entirely favorable to Harry digging around to find out more.  
  
“Molly,” Sirius says lowly, choosing his words carefully, “doesn’t… isn’t favorable to the idea of – well, of you all being involved, with the Order and what’s going on, and I disagree.” His nostrils flare for a moment; it’s a conversation they’ve probably had hundreds of times by this point, Hermione is sure. “But you, especially, are going to be of wizarding age soon. I’m not saying you’ll have to jump into anything but just remember what that means – if you break into the Ministry again you’re breaking in as an adult, the centaurs that only just let you go because you were underage won’t do so again – oh yes,I heard all about that – and if Harry goes anywhere–"  
  
 "Ron and I will keep an eye on Harry, I promise,” Hermione says immediately, but Sirius grasps her shoulders.   
  
"But who will keep an eye on  _you_?"   
  
His eyes are stark gray and bright, less sunken than they were one short year ago. This is a different Sirius, better fed and groomed, but no less tightly wound. The words he says aren’t things she hasn’t thought of before, but something about him saying them makes her realize they’re not something to be taken lightly.  
  
“You’ve a point,” she finally says, and meets his eyes, the draw of his eyebrows creasing the space between. “Good thing that I can handle myself, then," she says loftily in an entirely un-Hermione-like fashion, earning a snort. He envelopes her in a hug; there's a sort of spiced smell to him she can’t quite identify, and it calms her.   
  
"You and Ron remember to be careful for yourselves as well as Harry. Don't forget. Owl me," he says seriously as he pulls back, his hands resting on her shoulders. "About anything. Owl me if you suspect anything, if you see anything off, if you think Harry needs help. But also," he squeezes for punctuation, "owl me if you have a terrible day and need to blow off steam, or if you just need a friendly ear."  
  
Hermione cannot help but smile. "Back at you. Don't let the elf heads get you down."  
  
He laughs and pushes her out towards the kitchen, bread in tow.  
  
Later, they dutifully line up at the Floo – the Ministry will be picking them up in cars from the Burrow – and Hermione waves goodbye to the Order members who arrived early for the afternoon meeting to see them off. She sees Lupin smile back as George starts to shout something about discounts if she changes her mind about buying any of the Weasley Wizarding Wheeze’s love potion line; the last thing she notices as she begins to spin is that in Sirius's hand he holds a small, worn paperback.

∆ 

_TBC_

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after._  
  
— _J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit_

∆

  
_Snuffles,_  
  
_Bet you weren't expecting a letter so soon. I'm sure you heard about what happened on the train a few weeks ago, and I'm sure you've heard this from Harry or will by tomorrow. We were on our way back from Hogsmeade today and one of the Gryffindor chasers was Confunded in the Three Broomsticks bathroom. She had a cursed necklace when she came out and accidentally touched it on her way back to the castle, and while she's in the hospital wing for now, I heard them mention moving her to St. Mungo's soon. Someone wanted to get it into Hogwarts, but it wouldn't have made it anyway, it wasn't wrapped very well so it couldn’t have hard any charms on it to try to hide it from the Secrecy Sensors. Harry has taken it as an opportunity to accuse Malfoy to Professor McGonagall, which certainly doesn’t help anything because of course she didn’t believe him, but it's only made him more stubborn. I think you were right in saying things are changing fast, but it can be hard to remember from inside the castle until something like this comes along._  
  
_Anyway, Harry won't listen to me when I tell him to keep his head down. Maybe you'll have better luck._  
  
_–Hermione_

  
∆

  
_Hermione,_  
  
_Au contraire, mademoiselle, I am affronted you haven’t written me sooner._  
  
_In all seriousness, I heard about the necklace right after it happened. Harry hasn’t been very pleased that I didn't agree with him one way or another on Malfoy, convinced I’m not opening my eyes to a real threat. The Malfoy kid's a prat, don't get me wrong, and there's no mistaking how useless he’d be, but my brother joined up when he was sixteen and he was a tosser, which is why it wouldn't surprise me if they're recruiting young again... something the Order wouldn't be wrong looking into either, if you ask me._  
  
_What this does mean, regardless of who did it, is that whoever sent that package wants to hurt someone inside Hogwarts. It could be Dumbledore, it could be Harry, it could be targeting_ any _muggleborn. I know you worry about Harry, but remember to keep an eye out for yourself, too. You don't need to be told this, but you're muggleborn on top of being Harry Potter's best friend, and that singles you out more than Ron. Whoever it is they want to hurt, they don't seem to care who comes into the crossfire._  
  
_That being said, how is Hermione Granger? Is sixth year up to snuff for you, or are you disappointed there's not enough homework?_  
  
_Snuffles_

  
∆

 _Snuffles,_  
  
_You are charming these letters to be unreadable, right? I forgot to check your last one._  
  
_Nothing much has happened since Katie was sent off to St. Mungo’s, thankfully. Harry is still adamant as ever about Malfoy, though he's lightened up a bit on the constant harping on it. He's not very happy with Ron and I, as far as believing there's going to be incriminating evidence about him hidden somewhere in the castle._  
  
_I'm only taking seven classes this year! The coursework is fascinating in my Ancient Runes class especially – we're studying logograms, which has some real-world applications (not that I have to tell you that, as I'm sure you reviewed it thoroughly when you were studying to become an Animagi). Anyway, I’m staying on top of it but I’m not as focused as I should be, to be perfectly honest. I read about the most recent attack in the Prophet today. I keep the boys up to date, but I know Harry feels useless hearing all of it from inside the castle._  
  
_He's had his first two lessons with Professor Dumbledore, as I’m sure he's told you. It’s quite brilliant to be working backwards through a pensieve, but I have to wonder what the headmaster has in mind. Harry said he feels like they aren’t meeting often enough to make progress as quickly as he’d like, though obviously Professor Dumbledore must be very busy, but I’m sure there are other things he’ll be wanting to cover, counter-curses and complicated spells. I can tell Harry is a little jittery about it, as he’s turned to other means of learning new spells. He got a used copy of Advanced Potions at the beginning of the year and it's got all sorts of notes in the margins with spells I've never heard of, stuff that he has no idea what it could do, and now Harry's been following the book's advice and he's been getting marks for work that isn't his! After everything he's been through, you'd think he would know better than to take advice from a book he hasn’t the foggiest of where it came from, and he refuses to listen to me. Honestly, Sirius, I really would like you to talk to him. Harry only cares about how good it makes him look at Potions, but I don’t think he should be using it at all, it could be really dangerous for all we know._  
  
_The only other interesting thing this semester is the little get-togethers Professor Slughorn has been arranging that he’s invited Harry and I to. He calls it the Slug Club, where Professor Slughorn invites students he finds have merit and connects us to all sorts of things. He hinted he might introduce us to Gwenog Jones in a few weeks, actually. It's nice to be recognized for my academic achievement, but the get-togethers are honestly a bit stuffy. Harry keeps ditching out of them which leaves me and Ginny to fend for ourselves, which can be awful. I noticed Harry's mum was in one of the pictures he had up._  
  
_How is life at Grimmauld? Tonks mentioned you’re a bit cooped up when I passed her post the other day into Hogsmeade. I’d like to remind you that when Harry gets frustrated for being stuck somewhere he does something stupid – yes, I'm reminding you of things you already know, but I feel as though a reminder might do you good._  
  
_You keep telling me to be careful, so back at you._  
  
_–Hermione_

  
∆

 _Hermione,_  
  
_Yes, I'm charming the letters, and I'm_ _wounded_ _you have so little faith in me._  
  
_Goodness, the Slug Club is back in business? It makes sense, I had forgotten about those stupid things. He never much favored me, but then again, James and I wrote old Sluggy off early on. He just loved my brother as soon as he came through though, happy as a hippogriff to have a Black in Slytherin. Lily liked them alright, though. She was like you – top of the class. Not looking into becoming an Animagi, are you? I'd do best to remind you that it is, technically speaking, very dangerous and very illegal and very stupid to work that sort of magic without supervision. Of course, you and the boys never do anything dangerous, illegal, or stupid, so I'm sure I don't have to worry about that. (I probably have my old notebooks somewhere in this hellhole, if you want them...)_  
  
_Grimmauld is fine, and yes I'm being careful, thank you for the reminder, mother. I believe at this point I should remind_ you _that a scribbled-in textbook that may have put Harry to the front of the class is no reason to become prickly; green is not a good shade on you, Miss Granger._  
  
_Anyway, I'm sure you're reading this first before opening what I sent, so go on. I know your birthday was already a month ago, but I couldn't find the damn thing, had to go into the attic – all of my old stuff was sent back here when I got sent to Azkaban, you know, and I guess my dear old mother had Kreacher shove it up here, I'm honestly surprised she didn't burn it. Anyway, it's tradition for a wizard to get a watch when they turn seventeen, and I figured since your parents are muggles they wouldn't know to. It's a newer trend to include witches, anyway, but Lily was more pleased than anything when James's parents gave her one when she turned of age. My great uncle Alphard gave me mine, as I was already blown off my family tapestry and all that. I was a bit careless with it, truth be told, as I've never been one for punctuality, but I have a feeling you might find it useful. Happy late birthday, Hermione._  
  
_Snuffles_  
  
She opens the wrapped parcel and out falls a silver pocket watch, the face circled with little planets and stars.   
  
It's old and scratched, and she imagines a young Sirius holding it as she unwinds the chain and stares at it. Harry had gotten her the newest translation of a Runes theory book she had nearly picked up at Flourish and Blott's but finally put down because she knew she'd only have off-time to skim it, and the pricetag was a little steep; Ron had given her an assorted basket of Honeydukes, knowing her weak spot for the mint-flavored Sugar Quills and _aurora borealis_  Ice Mice. Mrs. Weasley had mailed her a cake to her delight, yet this feels entirely more special.  
  
Sirius was, of course, correct: her parents had had no idea of wizarding traditions. Even though she had explained it, her mum said they would do something extra-special for eighteen instead. "You'll have to forgive your muggle parents," she had teased, and Hermione supposes it's a good thing her mother thinks the term is hilarious and uses it every chance she gets; they had sent her new dress robes instead, green and just lovely, ordered from Madame Malkins. Yet as she stares down at the somewhat tarnished silver, she feels as thought this is possibly the best birthday present she has ever received.

  
∆

  
Harry throws himself down into the plush armchair beside the sofa, a sour look on his face. Hermione doesn't look up from her Arithmancy textbook, hoping to cross-reference it in her nearly finished Charms essay – it’s a _little_ extensive, but the coursework for both classes runs beautifully parallel this term and she wants to add a paragraph on how classical spell creators applied arithmetical approaches to simplify wand techniques…  
  
"You look chipper," she finally says, putting her quill down after the last of the other Gryffindors give up on after-hours studying and turn in for the night. Harry slouches further into the cushions.  
  
"Sirius reckons I should be careful about the spells in the Prince's book," he finally mutters, and Hermione's head snaps up. "But he _also_ says that you've got to lighten up because he must've been a really good potioneer and it's okay to not be the top of every class," he adds quickly to head her off. Hermione rolls her eyes. _Can't win them all_.  
  
"Owled you about that, did he?" she says instead of picking at what they both already know will just end in a row, but he shakes his head and digs something out of his bag.  
  
"Two way mirror, you remember the one he gave me last year? I'd forgotten all about it until we came back this term, it’s like a pocket telephone."   
  
“Telephones can be tapped,” Hermione says immediately. “You’ve been using this inside the castle? How do you know that it's not being intercepted?" Before Harry can protest Hermione leans forward and seizes it.   
  
"Sirius Black," she whispers hotly, and after a moment the reflection in the mirror isn't a reflection at all, but a hand that pulls away to reveal the guilty party, as though he'd pulled it from his pocket. Harry, who has furiously leaned over to snatch it back, stops as Sirius looks between them.  
  
"Blimey, Hermione," he says, "what—"  
  
"How do you know this is safe?" she demands, inspecting the mirror and tapping it with her wand. "Honestly, Sirius, with your constant warnings about not doing anything _foolhardy_ and then you have Harry with this—"  
  
"Hermione," Sirius's impatient voice says as she mutters a few revealing spells, " _Hermione_." She finally looks at his reflection and stops mid-incantation. "Do you honestly think I would have given Harry the two-way mirror James and I spelled ourselves if I didn't think it was Untraceable?" he demands. Hermione’s nostrils flare but she sits back. "I think you're forgetting who was already an Animagus at your age, dearest," he says with a grin. It is bravado, and Hermione notices his eyes flit to Harry hopefully; he's not used to Harry being even mildly upset with him. She can't help the slight smile that comes out, but hides it with a sniff as she sets her wand down.  
  
"Fine! Of course I remember your incredibly stupid luck," she snips, and Sirius's grin only widens at this, "but I thought it was important to check anyway. I didn't catch any way to intercept your connection. It's a good bit of spellwork."   
  
"A compliment from the top of the class, I'm flattered," he mocks, but it is without bite. "Anyway, speaking of spellwork, I know you're upset about that book." Harry grins at this from next to her. "And a flattering color green does not make on you," he parrots again, she's sure for Harry's sake. "But I do agree it can be dangerous to pick up spells out of a random book, especially ones you're not sure what they do. Just general advice. So both of you calm down." Hermione arches an eyebrow as Harry looks away, only slightly put out, though sated.  
  
"Anyway, it's about time for you two to be off to bed. This is a safe line, and if you ever need to speak with me, Hermione, Harry should have this on him at all times – just in case."  
  
"Thanks, Sirius – and thank you for the birthday present, I really appreciate it. Thank you." Harry looks to her as Sirius waves it off.  
  
"Not like I was using it," he says, and with a flourish of his hand he disappears, leaving Harry looking at Hermione curiously in the reflection.  
  
"What'd he get you for your birthday? That was nearly a month ago," he says, and Hermione thinks to tread carefully, though she couldn't say why. Maybe it's that Sirius is Harry's godfather, and she wouldn't want to muscle in... but no, it seems such an absurd thought, she can't imagine Harry feeling jealous that she and Sirius sometimes write.   
  
"A pocket watch," she says brightly. "When wizards come of age it's tradition to give them one, and he had mentioned that your grandparents – your dad's parents, that is, they gave one to your mum, and with my parents being muggle they wouldn't have known," she says, pleased to see a genuine smile unfold on his face. "It was very kind of him, especially because I'm not... well, I'm not exactly in the Weasley fold, and they'd be the closest I've got to a wizard family, so..."   
  
"Course you are," Harry says, but Hermione’s mind immediately thinks back to one particular incident – Mrs. Weasley's diminished affections during the Triwizard Tournament two years before, because she had read in _Witch Weekly_ that Hermione was apparently dating half of the champions. Harry seems to remember this at the same moment because he winces a bit. "Well, I'm really glad Sirius made you feel included, all the same," he says, his previous ire over his copy of _Advanced Potions_ forgotten. "It's good that you two get on. I feel a bit guilty whenever he argues with Mrs. Weasley, to be honest," he says, and they both giggle a bit guiltily after doing a round of impressions of their bickering.   
  
She doesn't mention that they owl each other, all the same.

  
∆

  
_Hermione,_  
  
_How late do you normally stay up studying, anyway?_  
  
_Snuffles_

  
∆

  
_Snuffles,_  
  
_I try to finish all my homework for the week later on Wednesdays, because I don't get up until seven on Thursdays, most other nights I only stay up until eleven or so – the work load this term is very rigorous, and now really is the time to start planning ahead for exams. Are you making fun of me?_  
  
_–Hermione_

  
∆

  
The Common Room is completely silent at one-twenty-six in the morning, dark shadows in relief to the light from the fire. Hermione sits in the armchair closest to the flames and finally closes her Arithmancy textbook, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes as she runs through a mental list of homework, of readings she should look over again before Wednesday's classes… the snipping between her and Ron that has been escalating over the past week ballooned to full-blown bickering today and it niggles sharply at her now that she isn’t distracted by equations. She firmly places her academic studies as first priority in her mind.  
  
There is a particular _pop_ from the fire that doesn't sound quite like a crack of the flames. Hermione puts her arms down and nearly jumps out of her skin, scrambling to the floor after a moment to kneel in front of the fire Sirius's head has popped into.  
  
"Sirius," she hisses, but he interrupts her before she can start on how foolhardy it is using the Floo network, especially after everything that had happened last year.  
  
"Hermione – yes, I already know, so just listen to me for a minute." He glances around the Common Room. "Ron and Harry?" Hermione shakes her head, the question of why Sirius nods instead of asking her to go get them on the tip of her tongue. "I figured you'd be the only one up. Do you ever sleep?" Hermione's lips thin and Sirius's head moves in a way that seems like he may have shrugged as he relents.   
  
"Harry told me about his most recent lesson with Dumbledore," he says carefully. "Recently, though, even though the Order is secure, we've started being more selective about the information we share with the rest of the group during meets. Double-blind, I'm sure you've heard the concept. And that means Dumbledore has been pretty quiet about Harry's lessons. He's preparing him, of course, but he isn't saying much and with what Harry's been telling me – especially after they've been looking at Voldemort's childhood – I think I'm starting to get a clearer picture of what Dumbledore is expecting."  
  
"I don't... what do you think Professor Dumbledore wants Harry to do?"  
  
"I think it's about what he wants _all_ of you to do," Sirius says quietly. "Tides are turning, you've been keeping up with the  _Prophet_. We're toeing a line that can't stay in the middle ground for much longer, between his followers growing and us barely being able to keep a grip on the little control we do have at the Ministry. I know that Molly doesn't want to include you lot in this but you've more than proven you deserve to know what's going on, and now that you're of age and Harry is nearly there, I don't see what the fuss is," he says, his tone revealing his poorly-hidden frustration. Hermione wonders how many times he and Mrs. Weasley have had this conversation. "Point being, I think things are going to start happening faster now, and it's dangerous for you to not be in the know. There's a reason they're looking at Tom Riddle's building blocks, beyond just trying to know the enemy. Dumbledore's been looking for something particular. He’s been tracking down Voldemort's old haunts."  
  
"His hand was cursed over the summer," Hermione murmurs, and Sirius nods affirmatively.  
  
"Not a coincidence. He brushed it off when he first came with it to an Order meeting, too, said that it was a necessary risk and that it was under control."  
  
She tilts her head as she processes this. She understands the need for secrecy; they could be breached, anybody could be taken hostage, and not all of the Order has studied Occlumency, she's sure...  
  
"I should be studying Occlumency," she mutters.  
  
"Not a bad idea. Harry too, though I'm not sure how he'll possibly want to take that up again after last year. Not that Snivellus made any great teacher, but it's still something Harry should learn."  
  
"Just in case," she says, and he looks as though he wants to add something. She raises her eyebrows expectantly.  
  
"I understand that the Order can't always be transparent, but I've been honest with Harry... to a point. What I haven't mentioned," Sirius says uncomfortably, as though he is completely loathe to admit he could ever hide something from his godson, "is that from what the Order has been doing, the more attacks, the patterns, on top of what he and Harry have been looking at, I think Dumbledore's preparing him for more than a someday-battle. And I think you need to start preparing, too."  
  
Hermione mulls this over and thinks over what Harry has told her. The Gaunt house, the ring Harry mentioned, that he thinks has something to do with Dumbledore's cursed hand... Tom Riddle as a boy, his stolen treasures in a wardrobe... collecting Tom Riddle's rise through memories; Harry had mentioned a strange thing that Dumbledore said, _the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ._ Collecting... or has Dumbledore been collecting his  _artifacts_? It dawns on her.  
  
"He's been looking for his prizes. Harry will be – _we'll_ be looking for his prizes,” because of course she and Ron would never let him go alone, “–we're going to be on the run." Of course. She wonders how she hadn't seen it before. How soon? Would they be finishing seventh year?   
  
Hermione thinks of the growing number of attacks listed in the paper and she can't quite see Harry sitting still for three more semesters, for Dumbledore showing him all of this if he were just going to go off and do it himself... she looks to Sirius and his sympathetic face, looking perfectly ridiculous perched on the logs of the fire. She sits back, feeling as though one of the rugby players her mom likes watching on the telly has just bowled her over.  
  
"You okay?" he intones in such a terribly soft voice that Hermione almost doesn't register it.  
  
"Well, who I'm taking to the Slug Club holiday party seems rather meaningless now," she says after a moment. They sit on this for a few seconds.  
  
"Who are you thinking of?" he says very seriously, and Hermione goggles at him.  
  
"I – hardly something I've put honest effort or – I haven't," she stammers. "Ron keeps taking a go at me about the git he doesn't know I Confunded to mess up his Keeper tryout, so I was thinking it'd be a laugh if I asked him," she admits, not knowing why she's admitting to it because if Ron ever finds out he'll kill her. Harry will kill her. Along with the entire Quidditch team, probably.  
  
Sirius's face turns to bury itself in what she assumes is his shoulder, invisible from the Floo connection, chuckling. Hermione feels her neck heat. She can't believe how childish she sounds to herself, let alone what Sirius may think.  
  
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," says Sirius with a grin after he resurfaces.  
  
"I'm not," Hermione starts, put out, and then breathes out with what she is sure is a pinched expression, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. "I'd thought about taking Ron, but he gets jealous and rude every time I bring up the stupid club!"  
  
"You might as well take someone you'd enjoy the evening with," he reasons. "If Ron feels like being a prat about it he'll be a prat about it, he'll come round eventually. I'm not surprised he gets bothered when he isn't picked for teams, so to speak, too many brothers. And... well, with what could be happening, maybe it's best not to focus on all of that right now," he adds haltingly.  
  
"All of what?" Hermione asks before she can properly read into what he's saying.  
  
"I just meant, just with Ron, I had figured—" he continues and it's almost endearing because he seems so strangely out of his comfort zone, but instead, Hermione feels something stab her chest that is strangely not embarrassment but something sharper, something she can't find a name for.  
  
"What?" she demands. "Figured that I'd let him ridicule me for being recognized for my academic achievement and then just take him to a party?" From the guilty look on Sirius's face she grows even angrier. " _What_?"  
  
"I suppose he – er, well, Harry mentioned that... he had the idea you might've fancied him. Ron, I mean."  
  
The idea that it could have been so obvious is at once mortifying, but the fact that she doesn't want Sirius to know is worse. Hermione's face must be thunderous because Sirius looks positively horrified to find himself in the middle of this particular conversation.   
  
" _Me_? Fancy Ron?"  
  
"You – er, don't?"  
  
"No!" Hermione snaps. She runs a distracted hand through her falling plait as she deflates and actually thinks about it. "No," she says again; it is half a lie, but she can’t bring herself to admit it. "Though I think he wishes I did, maybe." She glances at Sirius and notices how uncomfortable he looks, and can't help but snort. "You asked! Though I'm sure schoolyard gossip is beneath you."  
  
"Please, I was seventeen once," he snorts, and then sighs. "Honestly, Lily and James were together by the time they were seventeen, and everything happened so quickly after that... James's folks died around the beginning of the war, then Lily found out she was pregnant... and I suppose you know the rest," he says. "I guess I forget how young you all are sometimes. I forget how quickly my lot had to grow up."  
  
They lapse into silence as the conversation comes full circle.  
  
"I suppose I'd better start doing some research," she finally says.  
  
"It's okay to be worried about who you're taking to the dance," he teases, but his face sobers as she looks to him blankly. "Listen, Hermione, you might not have much time to be a student left. Don't ignore the outside world. Constant vigilance is, well, it's the right idea these days. But... enjoy your time while you have it. You, Ron and Harry may have only each other to rely on very, very soon, and that bond is important. More than ever, now."   
  
So don't mess it up, is the unspoken warning. Hermione nods after a moment and Sirius offers a tired grimace. He disappears with a _pop_ , and the fire continues to crackle as though he'd never been there at all.  
  
Hermione thinks about Ron. She thinks about the way she has never touched him, not like she touches Harry, so close to being her brother it's hardly ever garnered actual thought. She thinks about the way her palms had sweated when Ron picked her up in a bear hug when he made Keeper, and thinks yes, she does fancy him, has fancied him from some time she can’t quite pinpoint... She thinks about how disgruntled he was when she had pointed out that Harry has become popular this year with girls because all the newspapers started calling him _The Chosen One_ , his face when Cormac had sent her an alarmingly salacious grin, and wonders how she had never seen it before. Ron, the boy.   
  
Her thoughts turn to the man who's head was in the fire.  _Hogwarts boys are daft, anyway,_  she hears Ginny's faraway voice from the summer, and she thinks about Katie Bell, of all people; Katie Bell as the cursed necklace dropped from her hands, Katie rising into the air as she screamed and screamed, and how poor, trembling Leanne had feebly squeezed Hermione's hand as she had helped her towards the castle. She thinks about the deep circles underneath Sirius's eyes, the haunted expression he has never quite been able to cover.  
  
And her, running through a mental list of who else she could possibly ask if Ron wasn’t interested. How could she possibly care about whichever sweet, dull boy she could fathom taking to a party when she has heard the thrash of Harry's nightmares, when she remembers how stark the blood on Luna's mouth was against her pale white face at the Ministry? And the half-lie she had told Harry's godfather is that she did fancy Ron, but as she stares into the fire, the half-truth is that she lets it go, watching the flames die until only the embers glow.   
  
When the fire has gone dark completely, she stands and climbs up the stairs to bed.

  
∆

  
_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

 

_Sometimes, running away means you're headed in the exact right direction._

_—Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic_

 

 

∆

  
  
_So don't mess it up_ is a horrendously difficult piece of advice to follow over the next few days of December as Ron becomes the human equivalent of one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts. He cold shoulders her to a point where Hermione refuses to eat with him; Harry gives her sympathetic looks, but of course, sticks with Ron.  
  
"What's Ron's problem?" she asks irritably during breakfast, nearly setting the book she's carrying into a bowl of porridge as she drops into the seat across from Ginny after being thrown a particularly sullen scowl by the boy in question.  
  
"Saw Dean and I together few days ago after practice, got himself into a state over it when I pointed out he's the only one who hasn't snogged anybody," Ginny says helpfully, buttering her toast.   
  
"And he's taking it out on me?"  
  
"Well, I did point out you snogged Krum," she says apologetically. "But he was being a prat and I figured he'd had to have known..."  
  
"You'd think," Hermione grumbles, putting aside a muggle novel about witches her mother had mailed her for a laugh as the delivery owl drops a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in front of her.   
  
Hermione's initial reaction is to shoulder the attitude and avoid him completely – _Ron is upset that she had kissed someone?_ but of course he is, of course she should've seen it before; where yesterday she may have felt elated she just feels tired now. Her train of thought abruptly comes to a halt as she opens the paper: there is another attack in the headlines this morning. There are names of victims that have no faces to her, and she thinks about Sirius's warning, that things will be happening faster now.   
  
She thinks of the faraway, someday idea of being on the run. What do those words mean, anyway? She had rolled them over in her mouth again and again in bed last night, foreign things, staring up at her four-poster canopy... perhaps this is all wrong, perhaps next year will be nothing like Sirius has predicted; she will board the Hogwarts Express, Professor McGonagall will clear her class schedule, she will study herself into a half-crazed mess preparing for her N.E.W.T.S... but as she stares at the paper she knows, without a doubt, that there is no way that Hogwarts is an island, no way this will leave her alone forever. _Muggleborn on top of being Harry Potter's best friend._    
  
Hermione steels herself as she heads Ron and Harry off before class.  
  
"Go to class, Harry," she says tersely. He blinks, and seems to know better than to argue; she catches him throwing a sympathetic face at Ron as he hurries off. Ron watches him go and then looks at her flatly for a half second before he yelps as she drags him to the closest empty classroom.  
  
"What the hell, Hermione—" but she cuts him off.   
  
"Ronald Weasley, what is _wrong_ with you? You've been an _ass_ to me the past few days and I've done nothing to deserve it, or I at least I deserve you telling me why," she says fiercely. He gapes at her unusual expletive use, which seems to shock whatever angry retort he had prepared out of him as he looks away, put out.  
  
"It's stupid, s'nothing," he mutters and Hermione sighs and rolls her eyes, pulling herself up to sit on the instructor desk.   
  
"It's not," she says patiently, "and I'd very much like to hear it because I'm already a little peeved with you, but I'll be quite upset if you make me late for Potions. _Talk_."  
  
"Match is coming up," he mumbles, leaning against a desk across from her and crossing him arms, looking at the floor. "And... dunno, saw Dean snogging my sister... enough to make any bloke angry, really, but then she had to go bringing up..." he turns scarlet at this and very much looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Hermione watches him and realizes it is decision time, truly. She watches Ron and thinks of her own desires, the silly daydream she had never admitted to herself of walking down the Burrow's garden dressed in white… she’s spent the past few days chewing on Sirius’s words as Ron cold-shouldered her over his own emotions, trying to honestly imagine herself as more than his friend, imagining herself bearing the brunt of Ron at his worst with Harry stuck between them, and she remembers her own words to Ginny.   
  
_There is a war going on._  
  
"And she brought up that she's been in enough relationships to last an entire Hogwarts career and you haven't," Hermione finishes for him and Ron looks up indignantly. "And you decided to take it out on me instead of Harry because what, you're jealous that Krum was a better catch than Cho Chang? Honestly, Ron," she snorts as his face becomes even redder, "haven't you seen how Lavender looks at you?"   
  
This seems to strike him truly dumb. Hermione looks at her watch briskly.  
  
"We've got three and a half minutes to get to class," she says, shouldering her bag. "Ginny was trying to get on your nerves because she's trying to be independent and can't see you're just trying to be a good brother, and _you_ need to realize that she's growing up and she can take care of herself, and when she wants your help she'll ask for it. I forgive you for being a prat, and I think you should ask Lavender out. Can we be friends again now?" she says plainly.  
  
"I – yeah," says Ron dazedly, staring at her as though he's never quite seen her before.  
  
"Good," Hermione says as she heads for the door. Ron catches up with her as they head towards the dungeons. The air between them is awkward, but less tense.   
  
"Lavender, huh?" he says thoughtfully. Hermione ignores the sinking feeling in her chest. He glances at her furtively, and she keeps an even smile on her face. "And... I guess I had figured you, you know, with Krum... I guess I just felt stupid," he confides. She looks at him in surprise; for the first time, it dawns on Hermione that he's never quite opened up to her so candidly, in all the years they've known each other. "Is Krum a good kisser, then?"  
  
Hermione can't help the surprised giggle that bubbles out of her.  
  
"Is that a yes, or an extreme no?" he eggs on and they both laugh, relieved as the tension melts away and they walk into class right on time.

 

∆

The morning of the Gryffindor-Slytherin match promises a beautiful day. Hermione meets with Harry and Ron in the common room and they head down to breakfast together, finally a proper unit again. Ron’s attitude has melted away over the past few days since she cornered him, but is unfortunately replaced with terrifically awful nerves that leave him pale and shaky as they sit down at the Gryffindor table.  
  
"Cheer up, Ron!" Lavender calls out from down a few seats as Ron stares at his plate, which Harry places some toast on. "You'll be brilliant!"  
  
Ron looks taken aback for a moment and then grins weakly. "Thanks!" he tries to call back, but it comes out a bit like a cough; Lavender beams at him. Hermione breathes in and out, and reminds herself that this is a good thing. Harry glances at her and she arches an eyebrow at him, reminding herself to have a word with him later about spreading speculation on whom she may or may not fancy.   
  
"Pumpkin juice?" Harry asks, and Ron moans an affirmative, but Harry's hand tips and something is in his sleeve, something she catches out of the corner of her eye—  
  
“Ron, don’t drink that,” Hermione says sharply, but he drinks it anyway after just a moment’s hesitation.  
  
"Anything to help?" he says with a feeble sort of grin, perhaps keeping in mind their newly mended friendship; in the same vein Hermione clamps her mouth shut for the rest of the meal, but rounds on Harry as soon as Ron leaves the table.  
  
" _Harry_ ," she hisses and he opens his mouth to retort but she barrels him over before he can, "after everything the Order's done to keep you safe, how disappointed would Sirius be—"  
  
Hermione realizes with a sort of terrible satisfaction that the godson and godfather pair seem to be her trump card when dealing with either of them. Harry's mouth snaps shut and he exhales, nostrils flared. He glances towards the entrance hall, his eyes following Ron's exit, until he pulls the _Felix Felicis_  that he won on the first day of Potions class out of his sleeve close to the bottom of the table, so no one can see.   
  
"You didn't," she moans, but Harry hushes her.  
  
"I didn't," he cuts her off, and upon further inspection, she realizes he's right. The wax seal is unbroken. "Just to make Ron think I did," he continues hurriedly. "Hermione, you know I'd never, okay? Sirius would think it's brilliant," he finishes a bit irritably. "I wanted you to see it so you'd point it out, and now Ron thinks I've gone and used a potion on him. I've already heard one of Slytherin's Beaters got injured in practice and won't make it today, so I'm going to say it's lucky and it'll be the extra push he needs!"  
  
"Fine," Hermione says, begrudgingly allowing him a nod, "but I'd appreciate you keying me in on these sorts of things, I'd have marched right to the owlery, you know I would have—"  
  
"I just told you," Harry points out. Hermione huffs but picks up her bag, and together they hurry down to the pitch.

 

∆

Harry's plan works, of course.  
  
"Congratulations on the match," she says to him dryly after the Gryffindors have congregated in the common room for the celebratory post-match party, both watching Ron and Lavender wrapped around each other like two rather unfortunate sea creatures. Oddly, it puts her in good cheer; she could never imagine looking quite that stupid, and Harry's guilty face makes her think that perhaps Sirius has already cautioned him against making assumptions. She catches Ginny's eye and they share a smirk.  
  
The common room is cheerful enough that it doesn't take much convincing for Hermione to leave off homework for a night. The party has been supplied with butterbeer and snacks from the kitchens, and she doesn't fail to notice Harry's eyes following Ginny. She pats him on the shoulder and moves towards the corner table to snag a drink. It takes her a moment to notice someone has stepped behind her.   
  
"Hey, Granger," a voice says as she turns around. She already has a feeling what he could possibly want, and with an internal groan thinks about what possible excuse she could use—  
  
And then, the daring thought occurs to her that perhaps she shouldn't use an excuse at all. Ron was having fun with some brainless snogging, wasn’t he? An impulsive, half-formed idea takes hold of her.  
  
"McLaggen," she says coolly, turning and leaning back against the table. She takes a sip of butterbeer and doesn't break eye contact. He grins, and his eyes flicker from her eyes to her mouth. "Good game today," she offers.   
  
"Lucky game, if you ask me," he says, hands loosely hooked in his pockets. He steps a bit closer and Hermione casts her eyes out towards the throng of raucous Gryffindors, aiming for casual disinterest. "That Weasley nearly lost the match."  
  
"He had some good saves," she reasons. She picks up a pumpkin pasty and takes a bite, slightly too large to speak clearly through but she swallows as quickly as she can without choking herself and manages to avoid sounding strangled. "What makes you think it was luck?"  
  
"I've seen good Keepers, and that bloke is not a good Keeper," he says easily. "I watched him at tryouts, he definitely made the team because he's mates with Potter." Hermione finds it both irritating and amusing that he has forgotten she also happens to be Harry's friend.   
  
"I noticed at tryouts he made one more save than you, though," and she says it just carefully enough, just with enough of a smile that she hopes it looks flirtatious. _Boys are daft_ , Ginny's voice reminds her.  
  
“Like I said – luck," he dismisses confidently.   
  
"And I suppose it was just _unlucky_ for you?"  
  
"There are other things to count for the merit of a player besides simple statistics," he says, and Hermione sees her opening.  
  
"I'll agree to that. Did you make it to the last World Cup?"   
  
"My family was, unfortunately, away to a gala hosted by the Greek royal family – related on my mother's side, actually," he brags. She cuts him off before he can continue.  
  
"Mmm. But I'm sure you heard about Bulgaria catching the Snitch but losing the match?"  
  
"Naturally," he says, making no pretense of looking anywhere but at her. Hermione looks at him for three seconds and then back to the group, as though there is something interesting catching her eye. Harry, in fact, is looking over at her, revolted – she can't help the amused grin that spreads on her face.  
  
"It was a good game," she says neutrally. "That Wronski Feint was something to watch, even with how the match turned out," she continues, finishing off her pasty. McLaggen's face is delighted, almost as though he has found a particularly good racing broom. If anything, it makes Hermione more confident.  
  
"Krum," McLaggen says, cocky enough that she knows he thinks his point is being made, "is probably the best example of a player that overcomes his statistics based on sheer talent. You know, most girls really can't keep up–"  
  
"He certainly is talented. I actually dated Viktor for a while," she cuts him off again, actually rendering him speechless which she previously didn’t think was humanly possible.  
  
" _You_ dated Viktor Krum?" he says in disbelief. She giggles, aiming for an expression that is both amused by him and close to being offended.   
  
"What? Do you find that so hard to believe?"  
  
"Not at all," he laughs easily, leaning towards her even more slightly, "I can see why." She watches him appraisingly. "Though I have to wonder, how did a guy like Krum manage that?"   
  
When approached like an academic pursuit, Hermione thinks, boys aren’t quite so difficult at all.  
  
"Triwizard Tournament, when he came with the Durmstrang envoy," she says off-handedly. "It was nice for a while, but, well... I have to admit, all he could talk about was Quidditch. It was his whole life, of course, but you need more than just your broomstick to keep a girl interested," she says conspiratorially, holding his gaze for a half-second long enough that she can’t quite believe herself. "Oh, I suppose I should go congratulate the rest of the team... anyway, Cormac," she says, and – triumph! she can see it in how he swallows as she makes to move away, "it was nice talking to you outside of the Slug Club for once.” She drains her butterbeer and begins to move away, imitating the way she’s seen Parvati and Lavender practice walking, one foot right in front of another for 'just a bit of hip sway.'  
  
"Hermione," he calls, and she turns as though surprised, "you should come to the holiday party with me, then," he says. She imagines he must be a school girl's dream, his loosened tie and tousled blond hair, and he smiles in a way where one corner of his mouth lifts just enough to make his grin handsomely lop-sided. She has seen more attractive grins on more attractive men, and pretends for the quickest moment she were smiling at someone else, an empty face she can't quite see as her eyes flick from his open tie to his eyes.  
  
"Alright," she says. "Impress me." His grin widens, and she sashays back into the party, hardly believing herself.  
  
"Hermione," a voice groans and she turns to see Harry, who looks a bit sick. " _Please_ tell me that wasn't what I think it was..."  
  
"Cormac invited me to the holiday party and I saw no reason to say no," she sniffs. "Besides, _some people_ were not, in fact, under the impression I was waiting around for any particular person, and recommended I have a bit of fun," she says nastily, and nearly crows as Harry squirms – she _knew_ Sirius had said something!  
  
"I just... you know what, I'm not going to say anything," Harry says with his hands raised in defeat, and she laughs, in possibly the best mood she has been in in a while, slinging an arm around his shoulder as she pulls him over and they join Seamus in bellowing a round of _Drunken Sailor._

 

∆

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_The Harpies’ defeat of the Heidelberg Harriers in 1953 is widely agreed to have been one of the finest Quidditch games ever seen. Fought over a seven-day period, the game was brought to an end by a spectacular Snitch capture by the Harpy Seeker Glynnis Griffiths. The Harriers’ Captain Rudolf Brand famously dismounted from his broom at the end of the match and proposed marriage to his opposite number, Gwendolyn Morgan, who concussed him with her Cleansweep Five._

_—Quidditch Through the Ages_  
  


∆

  
The good cheer from the match seems to carry the whole of Gryffindor through the week; her peers seem rowdier, and despite Hermione having to parse out warnings to some of her more enthusiastic classmates, the overall mood can’t be dampened, even amongst the other houses.

In fact, there’s enough good cheer to go around that Hermione is inside a stall in the fourth floor bathroom when a conversations halts her as she reaches to unlatch the door.

“…would be such a good excuse for a new set of dress robes, and Harry Potter hasn’t invited anyone yet!”

“Anyone at all? What about that friend of his?”

There’s a pause, followed by a series of giggles that leaves Hermione feeling thoroughly put out.

“Well, I’ve already bought _my_ party robes,” another voice boasts, one that takes a moment to place before Hermione recognizes it as Romilda Vane.

“What do you mean, you already bought them, how do you know—?” another girl harangues.

“I’m going with Harry,” Romilda says with what Hermione is sure is a smirk, “because I have _these_.”

Hermione peers through the door crack of the stall as the other girls squeal. She can make out Romilda’s dark head of hair, but her back is turned.

“I bought one of those too!” a different voice pipes in, and soon there are what must be half a dozen girls giggling like mad; it doesn’t take long for Hermione to discern that they’ve all been through the love potion section of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“I was thinking I could slip into the kitchens—“

“You idiot, the house elves down there would never agree to possibly poison a student—“

“That’s why I bought chocolates, much simpler—“

The voices begin to fade as they all move away out of the restroom. Hermione waits for a moment before shouldering her bag, both faintly amused but also irritated. She hadn’t thought of asking Harry to go as _friends_. Though she felt rather pleased at the attention of Cormac inviting her, it was still attention she wasn’t particularly interested in having.

“Oi!” the voice pulls her away from her thoughts and Hermione turns to find Ron walking down the hallway behind her.

“Hello,” Hermione greets, but Ron’s expression is flat. “Everything alright?”

He shrugs, though the put out demeanor doesn’t diminish, and Hermione ignores it in favor of relating what she’s just witnessed as they walk towards Gryffindor tower. Ron snorts.

“He should probably figure out who to go with, get those harpies off his back. Heard McLaggen asked you,” Ron says casually, but everything falls into place as soon as he says it.

Truth be told, there was a slight awkwardness between them in the days following the Quidditch match; Hermione had offered him an ‘I told you so’ eyebrow raise the first time Lavender came by their study table to ask if he would be busy during their free period, and she’d done her very best to be absolutely unaffected, burying her nose into the copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ Harry had overdue from the library. The more she examined her past relationship with Ron, the more she realized that they weren’t very close friends – not like either of their friendships with Harry, at the least. It had made her heart ache to think that one of her best friends was someone she had been through an awful lot with, but had still managed to avoid talking with about some of the things that mattered most.

“He did,” Hermione confirms. “He’s a bit stuffy but he was very nice in asking,” she says, though it might not be the most accurate recounting; instead of rubbing in that she could find a date just as easily as he could, like she has to admit she’d thought of doing from the get-go, Hermione tries to seem as neutral as possible.

“Well,” Ron says, but seems to think about what he’s going to say for once. “Just – you know,” he says, and Hermione looks at him as they ascend a staircase. “He’s a tosser, so just don’t – hex him if he tries to pull anything,” he finally says stiffly. She nods, choosing not to needle him when she’s been nothing but supportive of his rather disgusting displays with Lavender. Despite his expression, Hermione understands the sentiment behind his words. He shrugs after that as they reach the portrait hole, disappearing up to the boys’ dormitory without another word.  
  


∆

_  
Hermione,_

_Harry has been adamant in Malfoy being involved with the cursed necklace. He hasn’t seen anything else to point him in one direction or another, but I can tell he gets frustrated about it, especially when talking with you and Ron. I’m not suggesting that we encourage him, but his suspicions aren’t unwarranted and the last thing we want is to invalidate him, especially after everything he went through last year…_

Sirius had written Hermione earlier this week, and she strains to keep the sentiment in mind after recounting to Harry the lively discussion of how best to poison him.

“Filch is being fooled,” Harry points out after grilling her about the Weasley’s secret mail order service on the potions in question. Hermione had steered him to the library instead of staying in the Common Room to be able to properly tell him what she’d overheard, but Hermione finds herself wishing for Ron’s steady backup – even if he were wrapped around Lavender at this point.“These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school—?”

“Harry—“

“Come on, why not?” Harry demands, and Hermione exhales, reminding herself not to cut him short as she evaluates her words.

“Well, it isn’t all that dangerous, at least in the way the twins handle it,” she says. “The Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don’t they? They find Dark Magic and Dark objects – something powerful, like that necklace. Nose-bleed Nougats or something just put in the wrong bottle wouldn’t register, and love potions aren’t Dark or dangerous—"

“Easy for you to say,” Harry interjects, but Hermione continues pointedly,

“—so it would be down to Filch to realize it wasn’t just a cough potion, and he’s not a very good wizard, so—“

It’s at this moment that Madam Pince descends upon them like a vulture, first to usher them out and then to shriek once she sees Harry’s copy of _Advanced Potions_. After a speedy exit, he picks the conversation back up, but Hermione beats him to it.

“Whoever did give that necklace to Katie,” Hermione says, holding up a hand to Harry as he opens his mouth, “Malfoy or otherwise, I don’t think they thought it would get through the Secrecy Sensors in the first place, which is why they had it in Hogsmeade. But they use the sensors on students going back in as well, so they must have known it would be a bust, or at least didn’t think it through very well,” she says, and Harry furrows his brow.

“So – so Malfoy got sloppy,” he says.

“I’m not saying he did or didn’t,” Hermione says, “but… if it were Malfoy, could he really afford to be?”

This seems to give Harry something to chew on as they make their way into the Common Room and Hermione sets her reference materials out to finish her Arithmancy paper. Harry seems to let the matter lie as Ron wanders over after finally resurfacing from Lavender, and they spend the rest of the evening debating how long Madame Pince and Filch have probably been in love.  
  


∆  
  


Despite what she’d said to Harry after Cormac had asked her, a _bit of fun_ is pushing it to the point where Hermione wishes she had invited Draco Malfoy to the Christmas party instead. He probably would've spit on her, come to think, but in comparison—

"Cormac," Hermione giggles, "are you really going to have me believe that you, a dashing young Quidditch player from an upstanding wizarding family, are anything but proper?"

He had kissed her under the mistletoe. She had let it happen, watching the scene play out before her, reserving judgment; it was not unpleasant. He had used mouthwash (perks of being the daughter of practicing dentists: she had been infinitely amused to see that a few of the more modern wizarding shops stocked repackaged muggle brands, and McLaggen definitely used Corsodyl). It was actually nice. It made her neck heat a bit, for McLaggen was handsome if nothing else, and was not a terrible kisser. As soon as he started to get handsy she stepped back and tried to smile disarmingly, deciding her best course of action would be to remind him of how _gentlemanly_ he was. (Only if his single point of contest were Grawp.)

"I'm the definition," he says cheekily, attempting to pull her back underneath. She giggles and steps back, tugging her wrist; he tugs back, and she tugs a little harder, sliding from his grip.

"Well then, would you be so kind as to fetch your date a drink? I'm parched," Hermione says, struggling to sound flirtatious but feeling quite like she's baring her teeth instead of smiling at this point. It seems to work, at the least; as he winks and turns, Hermione dashes.

"Luna," she says in relief as she finally stops on the clear other end of the room. The girl is dressed in spangled silver robes that, despite the oddity of her fashion sense, make her look lovely and ethereal.

"Oh, Hermione," Luna says brightly; Harry, beside her, turns to look and raises an eyebrow. "You look quite nice. Did you know your collar is inside out?" Harry looks like he's going to laugh but Hermione glares at him as she hurriedly adjusts her dress. Out of the corner of her eye she thinks she sees McLaggen's tall figure, and drags Luna and Harry to another point of the room where they end up in an unfortunate conversation in which Luna earnestly describes to Professors Slughorn, Snape, and Trelawney that the Auror Department is, in fact, engaged in certain vampiric conspiracy against the Ministry. Harry inhales mead up his nose in an effort not to laugh, right as Filch drags Malfoy in and the collective attention turns to the unfolding trouble.

"I was trying to gate-crash, happy?" Malfoy says angrily; Hermione watches as Snape raises one eyebrow, his eyes piercing, as Slughorn tries to wave the incident away. Snape, however, drags Malfoy out and it is already too late – Hermione sees the wheels in Harry's mind turning.

"Harry," she says, but he has slipped away, his eyes intent on Professor Snape's robes as they whisk through the door. "Harry," she groans under her breath; she can tell his eyes are on Malfoy and Malfoy alone. She glances around and slips out the door and just, just catches the slip of Harry's foot from underneath the cloak. "Harry," she hisses, "wait for me—"

"There you are," she hears as a hand grasps her upper arm.

"Oh, Cormac," she says, cheerfully masking the complete dread in her voice. "I was wondering where you had gone off to, I hope you weren't terribly put off? I hadn't realized I had eaten some of those delicious, ahh, dragon dumplings – before you caught me underneath the mistletoe," she says, smiling broadly at his irate face.

"Looking for you half the evening," he says, somewhat put out but sated slightly as she extracts her arm from his grip. "I couldn't even tell," he smooths over and she sees his eyes dart down and up. "It's terribly crowded in here, don't you think? What do you say to us getting out of here, find someplace a little quieter?"

"Oh, that's perfectly charming of you, Cormac! But you see, I just received a letter from Viktor in the mail today," she invents, "Viktor Krum, you know – and I'd feel terrible to make a blunder of anything, when I've just agreed to see him in Bulgaria this summer. But I had a wonderful evening, I do hope you enjoy yours," she says, smiling broadly as she takes advantage of his dumbfounded silence to turn and waltz out the door.

  
  
∆

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't articulate how much I appreciate the responses to this story, thank you to everyone who's commented - it really does make my day. Hang tight; Sirius will be back next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

_This was the tree, and it seemed to me standing there to resemble those men, the giants of your childhood, whom you encounter years later and find that they are not merely smaller in relation to your growth, but that they are absolutely smaller, shrunken by age. In this double demotion the old giants have become pigmies while you were looking the other way._

_—John Knowles, A Separate Peace_

 

∆

 

"Don’t mind your _watchdog_ , just doing his job," Sirius says on the third day of Hermione’s stay at Grimmauld Place with a grin, swooping down into his Animagi form to lay at Hermione’s feet in the library. She throws a pillow at him.

It's become a grand joke of some sort from when the big black dog rears up to lick her face in greeting after she opens the front door of her parents' house on Boxing Day. Tonks and Hestia Jones have been slated to pick her up for the remainder of the holiday, she got the owl last week – Tonks laughs and Hermione feels her face heat, to her own horror. "Mum, Dad, this is – uhh – the Order’s – err, watchdog Snuffles, and this is Tonks and Hestia—" she says, trying not to sound scandalized as the dog lumbers off of her to greet her mother much more politely. 

"Happy Christmas," Hermione says to her escorts after they step through Grimmauld Place's front door. Tinsel runs up the banisters, the curtain hiding Sirius's mother has a few stars stuck to it, and the entryway has more candles than usual, marking it brighter than she'd imagined it could be. Most incredible of all, they’ve finally managed to pull down the mounted elf heads – something Hermione suspects a recommendation she had made to Sirius of looking into more muggle methods of removal must have had a hand in.

"Wotcher," Tonks says with a wink. Her face is still pale and her colors are washed out, but her smile holds some post-holiday cheer. Hestia wishes Hermione the same as she heads towards the drawing room, and Sirius barks, tongue lolling out through the dog-smile and his canines.

"Can – did you apparate like that? Animagi can't use magic in their animal state!"

Shorter than a blink Sirius becomes himself again, grinning. "You'd be surprised at the things you don't know I am capable of, dear Miss Granger. And the family _watchdog_ now, am I?" He roars with laughter, apparently in a fantastic mood. He thinks it's a hoot, and over the next few days he will say _want your watchdog to fetch the butter for you?_ and _as your ever-stout watchdog, I will gladly guard the bathroom door_ and it's half-maddening and the rest is something else.

"He side-alonged with Hestia, don't let him fool you," Tonks says with a wink as she sends Hermione's luggage up the stairs. Hermione rolls her eyes at him and follows them into the kitchen. It's a post-holiday dinner, relaxed and cozy. In fact, only Tonks, Kingsley, and Sirius happen to be present after Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance bid goodbye, surely off to their own Boxing Day dinners.

"Sorry it's just this motley crew," Sirius grins, pulling a chair out for her and waving over a plate with baked potato and a generous helping of pot roast. "The Weasleys and their lot are still at the Burrow, but they should be over tomorrow."

"Harry's with them?" Hermione asks, tucking in. She had eaten a nice brunch with her parents and her grandparents, visiting from Bilbao, but realizes now she hadn't eaten much since. She had been a little nervous in the days before her escorts arrived, truth be told. She has watched the patterns of attacks and mysterious happenings in the Prophet over the break. Muggleborn and Harry Potter's best friend does not a good mix make, she had thought... the beginning of an inkling, a drop of the start of an idea that she does not want to name, planted itself in the tips of her spine this afternoon as she had stared out the window at the quiet snow and thought of her dentist parents.

"We did Christmas dinner over there, but we're waiting until tomorrow to get them all over here," says Sirius. "Safety and all that. Dumbledore's orders."

"I thought this was the safest place, given all of the enchantments it already has," Hermione says, refocusing on the company, on the bright fire in the grate behind the table casting long shadows along the walls.

"The Weasleys wanted to spend some time at home," Tonks says with her eyes firmly on the wall somewhere behind Hermione’s head. There is the slightest catch in her voice.

“I don’t blame them. How was your Christmas, Hermione?” a somewhat rundown-sounding but pleasant Kingsley asks, breaking a piece of bread to dip in the pool of leftover roast juice on his plate. She slides her eyes from Tonks to Sirius; he tilts his head, almost imperceptibly, and she looks to Kingsley.

 "Well, I learned how to drive a car," she says, and that seems to liven the conversation a bit as she steadily makes her way through the roast.

 

∆

 

Sirius is not in the kitchen tonight.

Hermione enjoys their conversations, but his absence must mean that he’s getting the rest he wasn't over the summer, which is a good thing. She idly pages through the coming-of-age novel her father gifted her as she waits for the kettle, fancying the idea of sitting in bed to read about young men and their American summers, watching the snowfall; Ginny will be in tomorrow, so she might as well make the most of an empty room while she has it.

The stone floor of the basement sends a chill through her feet, snaking up into her lungs as a shiver. She should've worn slippers, she thinks absently as she tries to walk with her toes curled into the extra length of the too-long, faded plaid pajama bottoms. She has a suspicion they were George's two years ago before they were Ginny's, before they were mixed up with her own laundry. She holds her mug steady and ascends the stairs, a dim _Lumos_ lighting her path. She reaches for the banister upwards as she steps onto the first floor landing, but there is a light on in the library. Hermione extinguishes her wand and watches the door for a moment, dark wood warmed by the glow filtering through the crack.

 She grasps the gleaming black knob and turns it. The fireplace is crackling, the light not reaching the dark edges of the room, and someone is hunched over in the armchair facing it.

 "Sirius?" she asks, uncertain, and freezes as the figure starts and looks up. It is Sirius, of course, but he looks nothing like himself, though she cannot pinpoint exactly how. They watch each other for a moment until she pads towards the dark green sofa opposite him, placing her mug on the end table beside it.

 "You should be in bed," he says quietly.

 "Back at you," she says. _Gentle now_ , she thinks, echoes of her dad whispering to her when she was two months shy of eleven, holding her hand out to the dog that had wandered into their backyard. _Can I keep it?_ she remembers asking; she had walked forward too quickly then, too excitedly, the prospect of an animal friend too tantalizing to slow her down. It had snapped at her and she had jumped back, terrified, into her father’s arms.

 She couldn’t say why the memory comes to her so starkly as Sirius shifts, leaning his head back to the tall armchair. Hermione holds herself very still, feeling like an intruder, like she has stumbled into a secret and he is trying to tip it back down his throat before she sees it.

 "Are you okay," she says, wishing she could reel it back in as soon as it falls from her mouth.

 "I – yeah," he says. He runs his hand down his face in a way that looks like he is trying to pull the whole thing off. "Busy holiday. Lot of people in and out, enjoying the quiet while I can," he lies, and she doesn't call his bluff but instead reaches for her cup to sip at her tea, to have something in her hands to stop from wringing them.

 "It's okay to not be okay.”

 She doesn't know what possesses her to say it. He looks at her as though she's grown a second head – Sirius breathes in deeply and a noise comes from him. It takes her a moment to realize he is laughing, sinking down to place his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, laughing.

 "Am I that obvious?" he says to the floor.

 "No," she tries, but it doesn’t come out because it’s too much of a lie for even her more brazen Gryffindor sensibilities to feel comfortable telling. "You let Harry and I talk to you all the time but you never blow off your own steam," she says instead.

 "You don't need an old man's burdens," he mutters, still refusing to look at her.

 "You're not old–" just a little, "and they're not burdens," only barely, because what is another to add to the pile between all of her boys? "Sirius," she says again, not daring to mistake his deep breathing for his unraveling, "you – you can talk to me, you know, if you need to talk to someone. I'm not Harry, but I like to think we're friends."

 His breaths come out ragged, almost rasping.

 "Merlin, do you have any idea how old I am?" She could swear his shoulders are shaking. Who is this man in front of her? She has never seen Sirius in such a state and she feels lost, adrift in uncharted territory.

 “Thirty - thirty four?" she stammers, wondering if the question is rhetorical even as she remembers the articles she had read even before boarding the Hogwarts Express – _October 31, 1981, Lily and James Potter dead at the age of 21_ – and his shoulders seem to go harder at that.

 "Thirty-five," he whispers, "I'm thirty-five. I had the Prophet but – for the first few years – not even that, you know, nothing to remind me, nothing to – to anchor me, I didn't even think not be human for such a long time at first," and his voice is trembling and rough like he had just woken up from a very long sleep, "I thought I had been in for a year when it was only five months. And then I thought it had been two years and it was three – nothing made _sense_ ," he stresses and takes a long, shuddering gasp. "I'm thirty-five and I feel twenty-two and I feel like I'm  _seventy_ , all at the same time, and I’m _exhausted_.”

 "Sirius," she says, not knowing what else to say because there aren't really any proper words for this, are there? She stands uncertainly and moves towards him – _gently now_  – placing one hand on his shoulder lightly. He goes deadly still and for a moment Hermione thinks she’s overstepped, but his shoulders shudder so softly that she doesn’t think, simply sits on the arm of the chair and wraps her arms around him. His hands come out from underneath the mass of hair and clutch at the front of her jumper as his head bows into her lap. She steadies him and he isn't crying, she doesn't think, but she wonders if that's because he doesn't know how, doesn't have the tears anymore anyway. She has seen pictures of his young, handsome face, and thinks that it is here, in the grasping bones of his fingers and the ghosts in the hollows of his cheeks, that is the true price of peace — it’s all she can do to moor him, asylum from whatever it is that makes his knuckles so white.

 Neither of them move for a long while, and they bear the silence together.

 

∆

 

The remainder of the holidays are bright, but cold; the Weasleys plus Harry trample through the Grimmauld Place hearth that next morning. Tonks all but disappears and Lupin doesn't accompany them, having claimed he has to get back to his "post" – Harry explains to her in a low voice later that he has spent most of the year living with werewolves.

 "Actual werewolves?" Hermione whispers back as they head upstairs, Ron and Harry towing his trunk between them. Harry nods.

"He's trying to convince them not to join Voldemort," Harry says and Ron immediately hisses and nearly drops the trunk. Exasperated, Hermione points her wand at it and levitates it the rest of the way up the stairs.

"Living underground?"

"Literally," Harry affirms. "On Dumbledore's orders. He looked exhausted, but he said it was important. Have you heard of Fenrir Greyback, Hermione?”

“Yes, I have,” Hermione says, startled. “You have too – Malfoy threatened Borgin with him! Back in Knockturn Alley, remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he’d be checking up on Borgin’s progress!"

Harry and Ron both gape.

“This proves Malfoy is a Death Eater then!” Harry whispers excitedly. "How else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?”

Hermione catches Ron’s eye. Harry had pulled them aside before the holidays to tell them about the conversation he overheard between Professor Snape and Malfoy when Hermione had been caught by McLaggen at Slughorn’s party; both of them had suggested Snape was pretending to help Malfoy, only to be met with Harry’s immediate ire. From the expression on Harry’s face, she can tell he’s already gearing up his defense.

“It is suspicious,” Hermione says, her eyes landing on the faded Chudley Cannons poster on Ron’s wall without really seeing it. If Malfoy is up to something or not, Professor Snape has always straddled the line, and she can only imagine the prime opportunity Malfoy’s presence at the party would’ve been for him to try to get him to open up… open up about what, though?

“Unless…”

“Oh, come on,” Harry says, exasperated. Ron opens his mouth as though about to say something, but thinks better and shuts it; another glance confirms to Hermione that Harry must’ve hashed it over with Ron at least a dozen times over the break.

“There’s the possibility that it was an empty threat,” Hermione says and Harry rolls his eyes. Before he can retort, however, Ron suddenly sits up, as though just remembering something.

 “Blimey, we haven’t even told you – guess who dropped in for Christmas at the Burrow? Besides my prat of a brother,” he adds, a disgruntled afterthought.

"Besides that," Harry agrees, seeming to resign himself to the subject change, as Hermione perches on the end of his bed, Ron sprawling across his own. “Scrimegour."

_"What?"_

 "He wanted to ask me to cozy up to the Ministry. Tell everybody about what a good job they're doing," Harry says grimly, shoving his trunk up against the foot of the bed. 

"Has a nerve, doesn't he? After everything they put you through last year," Hermione starts angrily.

 "I heard the Minister had paid you a visit," a voice floats through the conversation. Sirius leans against the doorframe, grinning. "And I heard you gave him the what-for. Did you really threaten him that he’d get sacked if he tried to pull anything with Dumbledore?"

"Good to keep these things straight," Harry says amiably. Sirius barks out a laugh and ushers them back down for brunch. They spend the rest of the day playing Exploding Snaps and wizarding chess in the library with Ginny and it is warm, comfortable, and perfect.

 

∆

 

"How was your Christmas?" Ginny asks as she drops onto Hermione's bed later that evening, teeth brushed and trunk contents haphazardly strewn across her own bed and the corner chair. She picks up one of the books Hermione has piled on her end table as she organizes them in her trunk.

"Uneventful," she replies, placing _Hogwarts: A History_ at the bottom alongside her fifth-year Transfiguration book, which she had debated leaving at home but decided to keep for reference, just in case. "My mum and dad were a little worried that the Order wanted me to leave so soon after Christmas, but I told them it was just protocol."

"They have any idea about what's going on?"

"No," Hermione admits, settling back on the her heels to stare at the half-filled trunk. There is something incredibly calming about repacking and reorganizing, something that relaxes her. She isn't set on her ideas for the future, but she always imagines having a library, one day, a very nice one with her own desk that she would sort to look like the well-put-together studies in her mum's home magazines.

"Are you gonna tell them?"

Hermione glances up as Ginny pages through her copy of _A Separate Peace_ before throwing it at her, which earns a warning glare before Hermione tucks it into the trunk.

"I'm not sure," Hermione finally says. She thinks about sitting in her parents' living room, looking out the window as she had waited for her escorts, the glow of the Christmas tree reflecting from behind her, the sudden beginnings of an idea she does not want to think of; and then she thinks of the _Prophet_ again, the muggleborn families being hurt and hunted, the two ideas chasing each other in a forever-loop until she can figure out what to do...

"You'll figure it out," Ginny says. The girl is sitting on her bed with pajama bottoms too short for her bare ankles, wearing a giant, patched sweater emblazoned with a faded gold ‘B,’ and the calm assurance in her voice somehow confuses Hermione for a moment as to which of them is older. "Don't worry about it right now. Anyway, you never told me how the holiday party went," Ginny says, waggling her eyebrows. Hermione gags.

"McLaggen has manners equivalent to the Giant Squid," she says and Ginny cackles. "I avoided him for most of it after he got me under the mistletoe, and then I escaped by telling him I was actually still seeing Viktor..." Ginny is positively howling, a near manic grin on her face – she’d been hounding Hermione about her decision to go with Cormac since she had agreed in the first place. Hermione had privately wondered about Ginny’s skewed sense of humor, as she’d been one hundred percent supportive the whole way.

"Brilliant, Hermione," she crows, wiping at her eyes. "So I suppose that's what you get for trying to get Ron's goat?"

 "I wasn't," Hermione says hotly, but then groans. "He just kept taking a go at me about McLaggen and I thought why not have a bit of fun..."

Ginny nods. "Might as well, yeah, I'd've done the same. Was he a good kisser?"

"It wasn’t horrible," she concedes and Ginny guffaws. "Until he got a bit... overzealous. How are things with Dean?"

Ginny finishes off her laughter with a hum. "Fine," she says, flopping back and picking up another of Hermione’s Christmas present novels. "I mean, not. Not particularly great," she continues; she isn't one to open up often, something Hermione has always thought conditional of having six brothers, "but not horrible."

Despite how comfortable Hermione feels around Ginny, she is reminded that in this area of conversation she has nothing helpful to add, no experience to properly advise with. She makes a noncommittal noise in response and Ginny seems content to leave it at that, and they finish the evening off discussing Ginny's particularly convoluted theory in the saga of Madame Pince and Filch's secret broom closet romance.

 

∆

 

"Are you alright?"

Hermione wonders if she should've said anything at all. Sirius looks at her from the corner of his eye, not turning to face her, as he stands in front of the kitchen sink. He's washing his dinner plate by hand, alone; the rest of the house has gone upstairs to the library for eggnog. He hasn’t avoided her the past few days, necessarily, but he had clasped her shoulder that night and told her not to worry about him; she hadn’t even had time to get a word in edgewise before quicker than a blink there was a cold nose snuffling against her leg to send her back up the stairs, and he'd kept an even, humorous guard up since.

"Fine," he says as though she’d asked him about the weather and he were being particularly optimistic about the snowstorm outside, and his eyes flicker to her again. He deflates a little. "I'm doing... better. I'm sorry you had to see me that way. The other night," he clarifies, clearing his throat a little. He turns the sink off and looks down at the plate in his hands.

"Don't apologize," she says sharply. Sirius jerks and looks at her fully. "You've been through a lot, it makes sense," she reels herself in a bit, “that you have some things... to deal with. That's one thing I hate about magic," she says abruptly and he raises his eyebrows. "Muggles have science – there's a field of study about the mind, muggles understand that there can be things wrong in your head too, and wizards just assume magic can fix everything, like mending a broken bone," she says as she begins to scrub her own plate, Sirius moving to accommodate her. "It's absolutely ridiculous that there isn't a wizarding equivalent of a therapist – a professional who listens to you and helps you understand and confront your problems," she clarifies at Sirius’s bemused expression. "And people who have had really traumatic experiences, they help them," she says, turning the sink off and putting her plate aside. "You've been through a lot, Sirius. You shouldn't have to bear it alone."

They both stand there for a moment.

"So young, yet so wise," he finally jokes, though it falls flat and he turns to dry the last of the dishes, swiping his hair back with the back of his palm. "Harry is lucky to count you as a friend."

"And lucky to have you as a godfather, but it's a two way street," she throws back. "Harry would be more than happy to feel like you can rely on him, too."

"Harry has enough on his plate," Sirius says carefully as he puts his plate away.

"It's part of being a family." Sirius says nothing and Hermione struggles not to throw her hands up. "Then rely on someone," she says, exasperated. She dries her hands on the towel and passes it back to him. "Owl me. About anything. Owl me if you need to blow off steam or have a terrible day." Sirius finally smiles at this and she returns it before retreating from the kitchen to enjoy the New Year.

 

∆

 

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love._

  
_—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey_

 

∆

_"Won-won!"_

The squeal could curdle milk. Hermione and Harry both wince as they climb through the portrait hole, first day back from holiday, and Ron’s face flushes; he makes a grunting, apologetic noise and hurries off.

"You sure you're alright with that?" Harry asks skeptically, but Hermione is sure the look on her face makes him think twice because he just shakes his head. "I just mean, I'm not sure _I'm_ alright with that..."

"It is a bit sickening," Ginny says dispassionately.

"Table over here," Hermione says, unable to quite hide her smile, "you coming, Ginny?"

"No thanks, I said I'd meet Dean.” Hermione watches Harry watch Ginny as she makes her way across the Common Room, her red hair bright in the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the tall tower windows. Harry finally looks back and sets his jaw defensively before Hermione can open her mouth, so she rolls her eyes instead as they move to sit in the velvet armchairs near the hearth.

“Harry!” They turn to find Neville hurrying towards them. “Here, I was told to give this to you.” He hands Harry a piece of parchment with a distinctive scrawl on it.

“Thanks, Neville!” The aforementioned boy grins and heads off to the dormitories as Harry unrolls the parchment. “Excellent, lesson with Dumbledore tomorrow night...”

 

∆

 

It isn’t until the morning after Harry’s lesson that he fills Hermione and Ron in over breakfast.

Hermione and Ron had dawdled over their Defense Against the Dark Arts essays as long as they could, but Harry hadn’t shown. The study session had started off uncomfortably; after the Christmas party that Hermione had made sure to tell Harry firmly she’d enjoyed, there was a stiff sort of politeness when it was just the two of them. Hermione had gritted her teeth, feeling it was unjust for her to have to be the adult, but before she could actually motivate herself to address the elephant in the room, she caught Ron trying to read her essay from across the table. “ _Honestly Ronald_ ,” she had shrieked without thinking, “if you just look at mine how are you supposed to learn _anything_?”

Ron jerked back in surprise and his chair toppled over. Despite herself, Hermione couldn’t help but start laughing, and Ron popped up with a sheepish grin.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said, properly contrite, and she suspected from the way he said it he meant the apology to stretch beyond just trying to copy her work. They got on better after that, and finally called it at midnight when Harry still hadn’t come back, reluctantly departing to their dormitories.

“I need to convince Slughorn to give me his memory,” Harry says lowly after explaining the rest of the lesson. He seems particularly prickly that Dumbledore – like themselves and Sirius – seemed dismissive of his allegations after overhearing Malfoy and Professor Snape. Hermione glances to Ron and they both share a grimace; Harry moves on to recounting the memories of Tom Riddle that Dumbledore had shown him, and the particular problem the headmaster needed him to solve.

“Slughorn loves you though, won’t refuse you anything, will he?” is Ron’s first suggestion to recovering the tampered memory. "Just hang back after class–“

“Think, Ron,” Hermione cuts him off without vitriol, her mind racing. “Slughorn must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she says slowly. “Horcruxes… _horcruxes_ … I’ve never even heard of them…”

She looks up to see Harry’s disappointed expression and feels a faint twinge of both amusement and irritation. It’s become a staple of their dealings, she thinks wryly, for something of a deus ex machina to come from the pages of a library book she’s already found. Though Hermione would never admit it, she remembers spending a great deal of time in her first year, especially, becoming intimately familiar with each section of the library for quick reference in case she could ever offer homework help to her classmates, and perhaps even entice someone to study with her.

“It’s got to be some real Dark Magic,” Ron’s voice pulls her away from her thoughts as he swallows down a bit of fried egg. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard dad mention anything like that and especially with the attacks on muggles he’s seen, loads of really terrible stuff, it has to be something pretty awful…”

“Something awful,” Hermione repeat, chewing on the words. “And the memories he showed you, go over them one more time, Harry–“

“The first one was when Tom went to the Gaunt house and found out his dad was a muggle, and the second one was him asking Slughorn about horcruxes,” Harry lists off, brow furrowed. Hermione suddenly remembers her firelight conversation with Sirius.

“Wait,” she says sharply. “Harry, did you say – Tom had the ring from his uncle? By the time he was with Slughorn? The one Dumbledore has now?” _We’ll be collecting his prizes_ , her own voice rings back at her. Harry makes an affirmative noise. Her brain is itching, the all-too-familiar sensation of being close to latching onto a thread tickling her.

“He’d already killed his family by then. It must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it’s going to be very difficult to get the information, Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…” she says grimly. Harry nods, and the conversation changes direction as the rest of the Gryffindors filter into the Great Hall to eat.

 

∆

 

“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s Third Law… who can tell me—? But Miss Granger can, of course!”

Hermione’s hand was in the air before he finished speaking after the introduction to today’s Potions lesson.

“Golpalott’s Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components,” she recites, her voice ringing through the dungeon. Professor Slughorn beams and awards ten points for Gryffindor, launching into an explanation of the day’s exercise that she can’t help but feel particularly gleeful over: working backwards to produce an antidote to a poison comprised of multiple potions.

From the corner of her eye she sees Ron doodling absently on his copy of the textbook and Harry’s eyes glazed over, and can’t help a triumphant smile as she jumps off her stool to collect her ingredients.

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she says brightly. “You have to understand the principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!”

Harry shoots her an annoyed look that she can’t be bothered by.

By the end of class, however, the tables have turned on her in an unfair replication of every Potions class she’s endured over the course of the term. Hermione’s antidote has fifty-two ingredients total; she is slicing beetles legs so thinly she’s sure her dexterity could compete with the muggle chefs her mum watches on the telly; she lobbed off a chunk of _her own hair_  to use in a stroke of excellent reasoning that Professor Slughorn will certainly be impressed by — and then his footsteps stop at their table and after a moment of silence, he chortles. Hermione’s head shoots up as Professor Slughorn considers the bezoar clutched in Harry’s hand.

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” he booms, holding up the stone as he enthusiastically lauds Harry’s inventiveness. With ten points to Gryffindor for _cheek_ , Slughorn dismisses the class.

Hermione sets down her paring knife, taking a full ten seconds to loosen her white-knuckled grip. After depositing her vial on Slughorn’s desk, she wastes no time in packing up and sweeping out without a word, jaw clenched so tightly she can’t even open it to expel the nasty quip on the tip of her tongue as she passes Harry into the corridor; she is so frustrated that to her horror, she can feel her eyes stinging.

“That was balls,” she hears from behind her. Ron’s long strides match to catch up with her and Hermione’s nostrils flare as she breathes deeply, trying to calm herself down. When she looks up, he seems annoyed as well but somehow lets it slide off him, the sort of way Ron always does.

“It really was,” she mutters.

“At least you got something out of the lesson,” he reasons, to her surprise. “Mine smelled so bad I could’ve probably burnt a hole through the table, reckon I should’ve poured it into Malfoy’s bag before Slughorn Vanished it…?”

Hermione can’t help but roll her eyes as some of the buzzing tension in her shoulders diffuses and she snorts. Ron reaches over and surprises her by ruffling her hair, and she bats his hand away with a protest as he snickers.

Harry doesn’t catch up with them until much later. The reason why, he tells them as they walk back to the Common Room after dinner, is because he approached Slughorn right after class. Naturally, the straightforward attempt that Hermione had _not_ recommended to convince Slughorn to relinquish his memory was disastrous – unfortunate, certainly, but also something that Hermione has zero sympathy for, which Ron also seems to be in agreement with. An irritated Harry stomps off to bed, and Ron shrugs as they watch him go.

“He’ll figure it out,” he says sagely. “Too bad that bezoar didn’t butter too well,” he adds, which she can’t help but snigger at. Ron wanders off to find Lavender, and Hermione turns in, settling into bed feeling slightly more cheerful as she pulls out a novel from her holiday pile to put herself to sleep with.

 

∆

 

For the first time in Hermione’s admittedly short life, the Hogwarts library fails her.

The reference section was her starting point; the assorted collection of overviews spanning the subject of dark magic hadn’t given her much hope, but she had figured it would at least point her in the right direction. Even finding a mention of a horcrux was impossible, and she moved onto the historical archives on the hunch that perhaps it was something that had been in vogue sometime in Tom Riddle’s school years. With no results and no leads, Hermione obtains a slip from Professor McGonagall into the Restricted section. After a solid four hour perusal, _Magick Most Evile_ provides the barest hint that a horcrux is a real piece of magic: ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak or give direction…'

Hermione flips through the rest of the book, then spends an additional hour reading and rereading it cover to cover – she starts feeling a bit queasy after her third review of a potion that will push any unfortunate victim’s organs out through their nostrils – but finds nothing else.

“Nothing,” she says after slamming her book down in frustration atop the heavy wood table Harry is bent over his Transfiguration essay at. He instinctively pulls up his quill so the ink doesn’t run and looks up at her in brief irritation before sighing.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to Snuffles,” he says. “He’ll have to know something.”

It isn’t until after dinner, after Ron joins with his own unfinished homework and after everyone else trickles to bed that Harry pulls out the mirror. He wipes a few fingerprint smudges away as they all crowd around it in a corner of the common room; after some arguing, Hermione relents and Harry casts the muffliato spell, just in case of any midnight wanderers.

"Sirius," Harry says quietly. The mirror reflects the three anxious faces until it shifts, and Sirius is staring back at them.

"Alright there, you three?" he responds, his eyes darting between them; Hermione shifts a little but doesn't move from her uncomfortable crouch so as not to move away from the mirror's reflection.

"I met with Dumbledore last night," Harry says without preamble, and Sirius looks more alert; he looks over his shoulder, and Hermione can make out the vague dark shapes of Grimmauld Place behind him.

"What did you learn?" he says quietly, and Hermione can see from the swing of his hair that he is climbing the stairs. Harry launches into his story and as he explains, Sirius’s brows furrow, listening intently. Hermione thinks of the unnatural concept of Voldemort as a boy as Harry tells Sirius about the strange half-memory that belonged to Slughorn.

“Sirius, have you ever heard of a horcrux?"

Sirius's eyes snap onto them, almost glowing in their intensity through the looking glass.

"Yeah, I have," he says slowly, "and I think I'm starting to understand what's going on.”

 

∆

 

 _Hermione_ ,

_First, because we avoided the subject after Harry’s last lesson: I’m sure Harry has already picked your brain about what happened between the Malfoy kid and dear Snivellus before the holidays, he asked me to keep an eye on Snape again yesterday after you and Ron went to bed. I didn't quite have a chance to talk to you about it over the holidays, but I have a feeling we may be on the same page. Lucius got into a lot of trouble and now that he's in Azkaban, Voldemort could be punishing him by using his son as a warning for other Death Eaters who step out of line. Snape is pretty high up as far as high up goes in those circles, which is why Dumbledore has him keeping his eyes open. Don't get me wrong, I don't trust Snape as far as I could hex him, but Dumbledore trusts him and it is essential that we trust Dumbledore. We cannot afford to squabble amongst ourselves, and Harry needs to stop thinking about that for now. He's already frustrated with me and I'm sure you too, but if he can't get that memory from Slughorn, we're already sunk._

 

Hermione receives the letter the very next day. She has a habit of packing away his letters when they arrive at breakfast, saving them to read later. She sits in the library now, books spread in front of her.

 

_Which, speaking of. I told you that I know horcruxes are dark magic (like I said, benefits of growing up in a wizarding family that favors the dark arts) — but I checked around in the library after we talked, and horcruxes aren't just a piece of magic. Horcruxes are used by dark wizards to make themselves_

 

There’s a slew of scratched out words that Hermione squints at until moving past in her impatience to understand,

 

_—‘stronger’ isn’t the right word. Something inbetween more powerful and less human. But even the books in my family's library don't say much beyond that. Again: it is crucial that Harry gets that memory._

 

_Beyond that, I’m going to be working with Remus for a while. I think the boys mentioned to you what he was up to; I’ll be his backup, in a sense, as I can stay nearby in my Animagus form if something goes south. I honestly think Dumbledore thinks I'm too much of a loose cannon to keep cooped up... I can't give you much more information than that, but I won't be able to owl often. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep the mirror on me either, so you three might not hear from me for a while because I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Keep your eyes open, and keep thinking about what we've been talking about. Watch out for each other._

 

_—Snuffles_

 

Hermione turns the letter over in her hands and rereads it a few more times, and can’t help but feel crestfallen. He hasn’t said necessarily much more than they’ve already figured out between themselves, but she is disappointed at the thought of losing her sounding board; Sirius seems to follow her line of thinking, for all she has ever complained of his immaturity.

Thoughts of foul magic still running through her head, Hermione bends back over her homework and tries to concentrate.

 

∆

 

The Tuesday morning post comes in with an owl that drops down in front of Harry with a thick, yellowed envelope that knocks over his pumpkin juice. As Harry scrambles to right the goblet, Hermione snatches up the missive – only Harry’s name is written across the front, in Sirius’s distinctive looped handwriting.

"What is this?" she asks, and Harry takes it from her after hurriedly mopping up the spill with the edge of his robe. He cuts it open with his wand and pulls out a slew of official looking parchment.

“What the—?” Harry mutters, and Hermione and Ron both lean over him in alarm as he flips through the pages, the Gringotts logo emblazoned across each, notarized, all bearing Sirius’s signature at the bottom.

"He gave you everything," Hermione says faintly; Harry is staring at the papers and Ron gapes.

"In case he gets offed?" Ron asks in a hushed voice.

"No, in case of _right now_ ," Hermione says, reading quickly over Harry's shoulder; "Harry has been named an owner of the Most Noble House of Black, he has access to Sirius's vault, he's Kreacher's master now too... and if anything happens to Sirius, it all goes to Harry because now it's in his name," she says, scanning through the hefty stack of parchment.

"Why, though? He doesn't think something is going to happen?" Ron asks, alarmed.

"Sirius said he was going to help Lupin," Harry says. "He must think... he's taking precautions. In case." His voice is flat and Hermione glances at him.

"Sirius will be fine,” she says firmly. “That's exactly what he's doing – taking precautions. He's going to be careful and he's going to be fine. Honestly, I think he did it because he needs someone to take care of things while he's out. Harry, you _own_ Grimmauld Place now. If the Order needs something while Sirius is away... I mean, Professor Dumbledore is the Secret Keeper, but there are all sorts of magical enchantments... security measures, I'm sure with Sirius out he's hoping you'll take care of anything if something were to happen while he’s unreachable," she muses.

Harry nods finally, his eyes scanning the parchment until he shoves it away in his bag. He doesn’t say much more, and Ron exchanges a worried glance with Hermione until Lavender wanders over and he excuses himself with a rather disgruntled look. Hermione sits in silence beside Harry, pulling out her planner and staring at it blankly as she wishes more than anything that, despite her reassurances to Harry, she could write to Sirius to ask just what exactly he’s thinking will happen.

 

∆

 

“Hermione, can I ask for your opinion on something?”

Hermione nearly swallows the water she spits out into the sink. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, setting her toothbrush down as she looks up at Lavender, already in her pajamas.

“Sure,” she says. Lavender looks slightly relieved from where she stands at the doorway of the dorm bathroom. Things have been cool between them as of late; they’ve never been the greatest of friends, but they’ve been flatmates for six years and are generally friendly enough, even if Hermione can never quite tell if Parvati and Lavender’s exasperation at… well, _all_ _of her_ , comes from a less than well-meaning place or not.

“I got Ron a present for his birthday and I know it’s tomorrow, but I hadn’t really had a lot of time to prepare much and I just wanted to see if – well, if you thought he’d like it before I gave it to him,” Lavender says in a bit of a rush. In her hands she has a heart-shaped box with an assortment of smaller items inside, including a box of Spell-Checking and Smart-Answer Quills, a boxed daydream, and a small chocolate sampler Hermione recognizes as one of the romance-enhancer sets that the twins disguised to look like it came from a fancy chocolatier.

“Ron was complaining that his brothers wouldn’t give him anything for free, you know,” Lavender says quickly, “and they have that order form, so I thought he’d like something from their shop, what do you think?”

Hermione swallows down the immediate response that it would be better for Ron to learn from his mistakes and pay attention in class; the quills are certainly a nice touch, and he’d stared longingly at the boxed daydream the day they visited the shop in Diagon Alley during the summer. The chocolates make Hermione glance up at Lavender’s expression, obviously worried. Hermione swallows and nods.

“He was definitely eyeing some of these and the twins haven’t given him anything for free. I think he’ll appreciate it,” Hermione says, and Lavender smiles.

 

∆

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for waiting - all of the comments here have kept me going while I've been in midterms hell, I really appreciate it! Working on getting more up soon.


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